Scenes from an Unplanned Life
by asteroidbuckle
Summary: Life after Belleview High School.  Where has it taken the boys?  Future fic.  NOW COMPLETE!
1. Morning Sickness

_**TITLE:** Scenes from an Unplanned Life  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game here.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show_ Drake & Josh_. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while._

_**A/N:** This story is meant to be a series of vignettes based on the characters from_ Drake & Josh. _The first few deal with Drake since he's the one that lives in my head the most. Other characters will appear in later chapters. The chapters are also not necessarily in chronological order either, so don't be surprised if they jump around in time. I write about whatever idea comes to mind, regardless of where it fits in time. **This is a future fic. And Drake did not receive a recording contract from Spin City Records. These two facts are vital to understanding this story.**_

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Chapter 1: Morning Sickness

**POV: Drake, 25 years old**

The second Drake Parker opened his eyes, the phrase _death warmed over_ popped into his head. He closed them again. A vague memory of a line of empty shot glasses standing sentry on the coffee table danced through his mind as he pried his tongue off the roof of his mouth.

Hangovers used to be old hat to him, but the severity of this one was a direct result of the length of time that had passed since his last one. It used to be that he could drink all night, work all day, play a gig, drink again, and not be bothered by more than a slight buzzing behind his eyes. Now, he swore that if he never drank again it would be too soon.

He hadn't planned to wake up feeling like a freight train was running through his brain. His friends had come over the night before, announced that he was too young to be such an old man, and had proceeded to ply him with copious quantities of what began as gin and ended up as god knows what. He vaguely remembered something involving a pair of shoelaces and an oven rack.

_Ugh._ Sitting up was proving to be a problem, so he gave up trying and took a deep breath to force the bile that was rising in his throat back down where it belonged.

He felt someone staring at him. On top of everything else, a flitter of guilt danced across his mind. He knew who it was; it was the last person on Earth he wanted to see. Correction: the last person on Earth he wanted to see _him_ like _this._

"You don't feel good." It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact.

"Go away," he croaked and winced as the sound bounced around inside his skull.

"Uncle Pete says you got a hangnail."

Drake cracked one eye open. John Jacob "Jack" Parker (formerly Hodges until Drake had it legally changed) stood staring back at him through his mother's eyes. He only knew that because the look in Kelly Hodges' eyes the day she showed up at his door five and a half years ago to tell him that she was done taking care of _his _son (a child she made clear she had not wanted in the first place) and that it was his turn now was something he wasn't likely to forget in this lifetime.

"It's hang_over_, Jack. And Uncle Pete's got a big mouth." He tried again to sit up. What he didn't mention to his son was that Uncle Pete was one of the main reasons why he was suffering with said hangover now. _Just like riding a bike, Pete said,_ he thought. _My ass. More like riding a bike that gets hit by a bus._

He looked at the boy. Six going on thirty, Jack Parker was much too clever for his own good. Based on sheer intelligence alone, Drake would swear that the kid wasn't his. Except that he had the DNA test to prove it. If he didn't know any better, he would think that some of Josh's DNA had managed to slip into the boy's blood.

_Josh._ Where the hell had that come from? Jesus, he hadn't thought about him in a long time.

He sniffed the air. "What's burning?" The smell was doing cruel things to his stomach.

Jack's gray eyes got wide. "Uh-oh," he said, looking sheepishly over his shoulder in the general direction of the kitchen.

"Jaaack." Drake tried his stern voice, but frankly, couldn't muster the energy. Besides, the combination of his throbbing head and his churning stomach was making him –

Scurrying off the bed, hand clutched over his mouth, Drake ran to the bathroom and fell to his knees, sliding across the tile to the toilet, where he emptied the contents of his stomach into the bowl in an array of interesting colors. He moaned miserably as he rested his head on the bowl.

The smoke alarm went off. Drake shielded his ears against the harsh wailing and muttered his son's name mournfully.

A few seconds later the alarm mercifully ceased, followed closely by Jack's arrival in the bathroom doorway. "It's okay now," he announced reassuringly. His entire front was soaked.

"What did you do?" Drake asked warily, fearing the answer. The kid could get into trouble without even trying. _That_ was something he definitely got from him.

Jack shuffled his feet guiltily. "Well…"

Drake put his hand up to stop the flow of words. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Jack shrugged. "Okay." He peered into the toilet. "That's really gross," he said, wrinkling his nose.

Reaching up behind him, Drake pulled the lever and winced against the _whoosh_ of the toilet. "Yeah, well. That's what can happen when you drink too much a–" He stopped. "–apple juice."

Jack looked at him with that special expression reserved just for the occasions when he didn't believe a word Drake was saying. "Sure, Dad." Slipping past Drake in the space between Drake's feet and the wall, Jack walked to the shower and turned it on. He turned to his dad. "You don't look too good. Take a shower and I'll make breakfast."

Drake just nodded. There went the guilt again. He was supposed to be the mature one here, the one taking care of Jack. Not the other way around. "Right." Using the toilet for support, he pushed himself up on wobbly legs. He pulled off his shirt and threw it in the general direction of the hamper. Fumbling with the button on his jeans – he still wore the clothes he was wearing last night – he noticed Jack still standing there.

"I think I can take it from here, bud," he said.

Jack cracked a smile. "Just makin' sure." Then he turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Something the boy said earlier popped into Drake's mind. "Jack!" he called, wincing at the slice of pain that shot behind his eyes at the sound.

"Yeah?" Jack asked, peering around the doorframe.

"Only cereal for breakfast," he commanded, regaining some of his parental authority. "Cold cereal. With milk." He pointed his finger at the kid. "_No cooking._"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah." Then he disappeared.

When Drake stepped out of the shower twenty minutes later, he felt noticeably more human. Evidence that Jack had returned to the bathroom was everywhere – Drake's clothes were in the hamper, there was a clean towel folded up neatly on the toilet lid, and his toothbrush with toothpaste already applied was propped on the edge of the sink waiting for him.

Drake smiled despite the lingering pain behind his eyes. He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and stepped to the sink. Picking up the toothbrush in his right hand, he wiped the steam from the mirror with his left. He studied his reflection closely as he cleaned his teeth – the bloodshot eyes and two days' worth of stubble made him look older than his twenty-five years. He frowned critically, then stopped brushing when he spotted what looked like a gray hair hiding among the unruly wet spikes of brown that edged his forehead. He leaned in for a closer look, the toothbrush hanging from his mouth unattended.

There it was, mocking him. He grabbed it between the index finger and thumb of his right hand and plucked it out, grimacing at the pain. He turned it under the light, glaring at it as though it would change color through sheer force of will. He was too young to have gray hair. Wasn't he?

"Jeez, Dad. I thought you died in here or somethin'. I was starting to worry."

Drake jumped at the unexpected sound of Jack's voice right behind him, expelling the toothbrush from his mouth in a spray of minty foam. He cast a dark look in the boy's direction. "I'm gonna start making you wear a bell," he said, toothpaste dripping down his chin.

Jack just grinned. "You got a little somethin' right here," he said, pointing to his chin.

"Thanks," Drake replied sarcastically, then bent to rinse out his mouth, wiping it on the hand towel hanging next to the sink.

"Hurry up. Your cereal is getting soggy," Jack declared, then turned and exited the bathroom once again.

Drake emerged barefoot from the bedroom ten minutes later to find Jack seated on the couch watching one of those daily morning shows where everyone was so cheery he wanted to puke. He leaned against his arms along the back of the couch behind his son. A woman with plastic blonde hair and a smile too wide for her face was explaining in bubbly tones how to make valued treasures out of everyday items. Jack was watching it intently.

Drake rolled his eyes and reached for the remote that was lying on the cushion next to Jack. Pointing it at the television, he changed the station to the cartoon channel.

"Hey! I was watching that!" Jack exclaimed indignantly, twisting his head to look at his father.

"Jack," Drake said, straightening up. "You're six years old. It kinda freaks me out when you watch the news."

"Dad," Jack replied. "It wasn't the news. She was makin' stuff. Cool stuff."

"Do you really think you're gonna need a wind chime made out of measuring cups?" Drake asked skeptically. He started walking towards the kitchen with Jack in tow.

"Well, Father's Day _is_ coming up," the kid replied and Drake could hear the laughter in his voice.

"I'd rather –" Drake began, but the sight before him made him stop mid-sentence. He stood in the kitchen doorway. The entire floor in front of the sink was covered in wet paper towels – an entire roll, apparently, by the looks of it. Also, the sprayer from the sink was pulled out to its full length and was dangling over the edge of the sink halfway to the floor.

It was only when Drake spied the microwave that he remembered the smoke alarm he'd heard earlier. What had been a fully functioning appliance just the day before now looked as though it had seen combat – and lost. The inside was charred and the glass was cracked. Something unidentifiable was on the turntable. Water pooled underneath what was left. The smell of smoke still clung to the air.

"Jack Parker. Come here please." His voice was calm through clenched teeth.

The boy was no longer behind him and had instead retreated to the safety that the edge of the living room offered. "A-Are you mad?" he asked softly, sounding every inch the little boy that he was. He took a few cautious steps towards Drake.

"What happened?" Drake asked his son as he looked down at him.

"Well," Jack began and Drake could see him visibly swallow. "I was drying my shirt in the microwave and it…kinda caught on fire."

Drake closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The throbbing behind his eyes instantly became more intense. When he opened them again, he saw Jack staring up at him with wide eyes. "Why were you drying your shirt in the microwave?"

Tears welled up in the little boy's gray eyes. "'Cause it was wet," he answered softly.

"Why was it wet?"

"'Cause I washed it."

"Where did you wash it?" Drake asked patiently, his anger beginning to ebb. When Jack was scared, he needed a little prodding.

"In the sink." _Sniffle._

"Is that how the floor got all wet?"

"No. That was after."

"After what?" Drake could guess the rest, but he needed the kid to tell him in his own words.

"Well, remember this morning when you smelled something burning?"

Drake nodded. "Yeah." He knelt down so that he was eye level with Jack.

"Well, I went to check and I could see smoke coming from the microwave. I looked through the front and saw the fire. So I opened the door, but there was more smoke and then the alarm went off." He sniffled again and wiped fiercely at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I used the sprayer thing to put the fire out. That's how come the floor's wet."

"Jack," Drake sighed, shaking his head in slight exasperation.

"You're mad." Jack's voice sounded so tiny.

"A little," Drake admitted. "But I'm mostly relieved. You could've been really hurt, you know."

"I'm know." Fat tears rolled silently down the boy's cheeks.

Drake brushed the tears away with his thumb. "What would I do without you? Who'd take care of me?" He smiled.

Jack managed a smile. "I'm sorry," he said and threw his arms around his dad's neck.

Drake pulled the boy to him, felt the last of his tears soak into his t-shirt. "I'll buy a new one," he heard Jack say, the words spoken into Drake's neck.

He pushed Jack away and held him at arm's length in front of him. "A new what?"

"A new microwave," Jack stated matter-of-factly.

Suppressing a smile, Drake asked, "With what money?"

"My allowance," Jack answered in his _duh_ tone of voice. "I've already saved twelve dollars and fifty-eight cents." When Drake just smiled instead of responding, he tilted his head to the side and asked, "How much do they cost?"

"More than twelve dollars and fifty-eight cents."

"How much more?" the boy asked earnestly. He was serious about the subject.

"Well, you'd need about seventy more dollars to get one like ours."

Jack frowned, then started counting on his fingers – the surest accounting method known to six-year-olds. When he ran out of fingers, he paused, looked unseeing into the distance for a moment, then started counting again, starting with his left thumb.

Laughing, Drake covered Jack's hands with his own. "At five dollars a week, it would take you 14 weeks to save up 70. And that would mean you couldn't buy any books or candy or anything for _three months_." He squeezed the boy's hands. "Besides, we can't wait that long to get a new microwave. We'd starve to death." He stood up.

"But I want to do _somethin'_," Jack insisted. "I mean, _I_ broke it."

Drake pretended to give it a lot of thought. "If you clean up the kitchen the best you can, we'll call it even. When you're done, you can bring me a bowl of cereal. Okay?"

"But I already made you cereal," Jack said, pointing towards the living room. "How 'bout I make you some chocolate milk?"

"Deal," Drake said, holding out his hand. When the two shook hands, he said, "Now get to it. And don't touch the microwave."

Jack disappeared into the kitchen. Drake walked back into the living room and sank into the couch, resting his head against the back. The noise of the cartoons aggravated his headache, so he picked up the remote and pressed the MUTE button. At least his stomach felt better. Remembering the cereal Jack had made for him, he sat up. A tan-colored mass of what used to be Cheerios filled one bowl, while another bowl sat empty with a small puddle of drying milk in the bottom.

Drake tried a bite of the cereal. It was mushy and room temperature, but he was hungry. He scooped up the bowl, rested his feet on the coffee table and watched cartoons in silence. Several minutes later, Jack stood in front of him, holding a glass filled with dark brown liquid. He spied the empty bowl on the cushion next to Drake and seemed pleased.

"Here you go, Dad." He thrust out the glass.

Drake seized the glass in his right hand and peered warily into it. Close up, whatever it was looked suspiciously _unlike_ chocolate milk. He looked at his son, who stared guilelessly back at him. "What is it?"

"Just drink it. You'll feel better." He smiled. "I promise."

Drake cautiously brought the glass to his lips. Giving Jack one last look over the rim, he tipped the glass back. The thick brown sludge slid past his lips and onto his tongue. Twisting his face into a grimace, he sat up, spitting the concoction back into the glass and setting it on the table, as far away from him as he could get it.

"What the _fuck_ is that?" he gasped, wiping his tongue on his sleeve.

"Bad word, Dad. You owe me a dollar."

"Put it on my tab," Drake quipped, eyeing Jack darkly. He pointed at the glass. "_That_ is _not_ chocolate milk."

"Sure it is," Jack said. "There's just other stuff in it, too."

"Like what, raw sewage?" Drake made another face. He'd have to brush his teeth again. _And_ use mouthwash to get the taste out.

"No," said Jack. "Like vinegar, cinnamon, wush…wooshter…" He was ticking off the ingredients on his fingers.

"Worcestershire sauce?" Drake asked incredulously.

"That's it!" the boy answered happily. "I followed a recipe."

"A recipe? For what?" He was almost afraid of the answer.

"A drink. For hangovers. I found it on the Internet," Jack said cheerfully. "But we didn't have Tabasco, so I used ketchup instead."

Drake felt his stomach do a somersault. Suddenly he regretted the boy's reading prowess. Most kids his age watched cartoons and played video games. His son watched CNN and looked up hangover remedies on the Internet.

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_Please review! It is very much appreciated. Thank you._


	2. A Place Called Home

_**TITLE:** Scenes from an Unplanned Life  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game here.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show_ Drake & Josh_. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while._

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Chapter 2: A Place Called Home

**POV: Drake, 25 years old**

The neighborhood hadn't changed much. The houses were still nice; the lawns were still neatly manicured. Drake sat behind the wheel of a beat up old Buick four-door parked in the shadows between two street lights. Jack had finally stopped fighting it and had fallen asleep two hours before; he was curled up in the backseat, using Drake's jacket as a blanket.

Drake adjusted the rearview mirror so that he could look at the boy as he slept. Jack was lying on his left side, right hand wedged under his cheek, left hand resting on the pillow, his fingers slightly curled. Drake hadn't told him the reason for the trip, had just said that they were going away on an adventure before school started in August. He felt a little guilty about that now as he watched his son sleeping. He tried to never lie to the kid and supposed he wasn't really lying now – whatever was going to happen in the next few days _would_ be an adventure. Whether that was good or bad remained to be seen.

Jack stirred and Drake quickly shifted his gaze to the house across the street, his eyes going automatically to the window over the garage. There were so many memories tied up in the room that lurked behind the darkened glass – memories that he had spent the better part of the last seven years covering with layers of forced amnesia.

_If you don't remember it, it can't hurt you._

Not that he had anyone to blame but himself, really. He was the one that had chosen to leave a week after graduating from high school with nothing but the 1500 he had managed to save up, his favorite acoustic guitar, and the determination to live his own life. They had asked him to reconsider, to give it some more thought. But he had always been the impulsive one – jumping out of helicopters without a parachute.

_Ha._ There went another memory.

His parents had gotten angry – anger borne of fear, he now realized – and had told him that since he obviously felt he didn't need them anymore, that he shouldn't come crying to them when his life didn't turn out as he planned. He of course, in the heat of the moment, had taken them literally. A month of no communication turned into a year, then one year into two, until seven years later, he sat outside his childhood home feeling like a total stranger.

Life _hadn't_ turned out the way he'd planned. But it was _his_ life. And he didn't regret it.

"Where are we?"

Drake jumped at the sound of Jack's voice. "Hey, bud. Did you sleep okay?" he asked, turning in his seat to look at the boy. Jack's hair was sticking up on one side and sleep creases crisscrossed his left cheek. Drake himself was exhausted. He looked at his watch. It was getting late – 11:19pm on the west coast. But his body was still on Eastern Time.

Yawning, Jack climbed between the two front seats and sank heavily into the passenger's seat. "I guess. The seat's kinda uncomfortable, though."

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry." Drake felt guilty; if he wasn't such a coward, they would probably be inside right now and Jack would be sleeping in a real bed. As it was, he had spent the last hour and a half staking out his parents' house in a borrowed car, trying to find the courage to confront the life he left behind when he was eighteen.

"'S okay," Jack replied, his voice still scratchy from sleep. He rubbed his eyes and looked through Drake's window at the house across the street. "Where are we?" he asked again, looking at his dad.

"See that house right there?" Drake asked, pointing out the window. His nerves were starting to surface.

Jack nodded.

"I used to live there." At Jack's surprised expression, he continued, "A long time ago. When I was a kid."

Jack leaned forward, his body spanning the console, and propped himself up on Drake's leg as he studied the house more closely. "Which one was your room?"

"The one over the garage." He took a deep breath, trying to calm his growing anxiety. Looking over at his son, he could see a million questions in the boy's eyes – questions he wasn't ready to answer yet. Jack opened his mouth to speak.

"Jack," Drake said, stopping him. "It's a long story. And I'll tell it to you sometime. Just not right now, okay? I'm tired." Drake pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned his head against the headrest, closing his eyes.

"Okay." Jack watched his father in silence for a long moment, then shifted in his seat and thrust his legs out in front of him. His feet hung over the edge, untied shoelaces dangling from his sneakers.

The prolonged silence was finally broken by Drake's voice saying, "Come on." He had come to a decision. Pushing open the driver's door, he started to step out.

"Where're we going?" Jack asked, grabbing the door handle with both hands and pushing open the door.

"We're gonna go ring the doorbell." Drake stepped completely out of the car and shut the door with a dull _thud_. He turned towards the house, his hand still resting on the roof of the car. His heart pounded against his ribs.

Jack got out and closed the door behind him, walking around the front of the car to stand next to his dad. "But it's dark. Won't we wake 'em up?"

"Maybe." Drake took a deep breath. "But it's now or never," he said softly. He looked down at his son. "Ready?"

Looking up at him with eyes darkened by the dim light, Jack asked quietly, "Are you?"

Drake smirked. _Good question._ "As ready as I'll ever be," he answered, looking back at the house. "Let's go." He started across the street, his boots tapping out a muted staccato in the nighttime quiet.

The plants lining the front walk were different from the ones he remembered. But the intricate design in the glass in the front door hadn't changed, he noticed, as they climbed the steps to the porch. He knelt in front of Jack and grasped the boy's arms. "Listen to me carefully. I don't know how this is gonna go, okay? So I want you to stand right here," he said, positioning the boy to the left of the door where he would be unseen by anyone standing in the doorway, "and be as quiet as possible. Can you do that for me?"

"Okay. But why?" Jack asked.

Drake closed his eyes for a second. His composure was starting to crack and he swallowed down the growing lump in his throat. He didn't want to tell his son that there was a possibility that the door would be slammed and he would rather it be in _his_ face and not Jack's. "Just this once don't argue with me, okay? Please."

"Okay, Daddy," Jack replied softly.

_Daddy._ Jack never said that unless he was scared. Drake smoothed his right hand over Jack's unruly hair. "Everything's gonna be okay. I promise," Drake whispered reassuringly. "You trust me?"

Jack just nodded, eyes wide.

"Good." He gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze. "I love you, Jack."

"Love you, too." He blinked away the tears that were threatening to fall, dark lashes glistening in the light.

Drake stood, knees shaking, and walked to the front door. He inhaled deeply, pushing the air out quickly past his lips. "Here goes," he said under his breath as he brought a trembling finger to the bell and pressed.

Muted chimes resonated through the quiet house. Drake tapped the toe of his boot nervously as he waited and hooked his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans, casting a quick glance at Jack. The silence seemed to drag on forever and he was about to ring again when he heard the deadbolt slide back.

The sound captured Drake's attention and he fixed his eyes on the seam between the two doors. The one on the right opened about a foot. Drake could see a pair of slippered feet and the cuffs of some blue flannel sleep pants sticking out from the frayed edges of a battered blue robe. He couldn't bring himself to look up.

"My God," he heard Walter mutter, his voice nothing more than a stunned whisper. "Drake."

Drake finally looked up, his eyes meeting Walter's over a chasm formed by seven years of separation. "Hello, Walter." He wasn't sure he could say anything more.

Walter had changed in small ways – his hair was graying at the temples and crow's feet branched out from the corner of each eye. He also had dark circles under his eyes, but Drake chalked those up to being awakened suddenly by the return of the prodigal son.

The two men just stared at each other through the crack in the door, seven years of estrangement standing like a fortress between them. "I-I know it's late," Drake said dumbly, unable to stand the silence.

Walter shook his head, waved his hand in the air between them. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"It's good to see you, Walter." Drake hadn't known how much he had missed his stepfather – a man who had been more of a father to him for so many years than his own father had been – until that moment.

Drake saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Jack stood staring expectantly back at him from his hiding place. He gestured for the boy to come over.

Jack shuffled the few steps to his dad, his untied sneakers scraping along the porch. Taking Drake's hand snugly in his, he looked silently up at Walter.

In his surprise, Walter let go of the doorknob. The door slid open another couple feet. Drake could see the tears welling up in the older man's eyes as he studied the boy.

"Walter, this is Jack." Drake looked down at his son and squeezed his hand. "Jack, this is your Grandpa Walter."

"Hello, Jack," Walter said reverently. Unshed tears shone in his dark eyes.

"Hi," Jack said shyly, inching even closer to Drake's leg.

"Can we come in?" Drake finally asked, breaking the tense silence.

Walter was startled out of his reverie and he flicked his gaze back to Drake, his lips moving slightly as he assimilated the question into his mind. "Of course," he finally said, standing aside. "Of course," he repeated, watching his son and his grandson – he still couldn't believe it – walk into the foyer. He closed the door quietly and turned on the overhead light, turning to watch Drake inspect the living room.

The only thing that was different was the furniture. A strange sense of nostalgia came over Drake and he was struck by the notion that he and Jack and Walter were stuck in some kind of suspended animation where time stood still for them as the world rushed past outside.

"Walter?"

The sound of Audrey's voice cut through the silence. Jack's hand slipped out of Drake's as the little boy hid behind his father's legs at the sound of another strange voice. Drake found himself staring at the doorway that led to the stairs, stuck in place, his heart pounding in his ears.

"Who–?" she asked, but the rest of the question died on her lips. The blood drained from her face in an instant and she reached out blindly, instinctively for her husband. She looked as though she'd seen a ghost and in a way, she had. The son who'd been so out of reach for seven years now stood just a few feet away.

"Drake," she whispered in a choked voice. "Drake."

"Hi, Mom." Drake found it hard to talk. He had to bite down hard on his tongue to keep from crying.

Her hand was suddenly on his cheek and Drake had a memory of a thousand touches just like it. "My baby," she whispered through the tears that fell uninterrupted from her eyes. And for once he didn't mind the endearment.

Jack stirred against Drake's legs and peeked his head around to look up at Audrey. Audrey pulled her gaze away from her son to focus on the boy. In her shock, she hadn't even seen him hiding behind Drake.

She knew instantly who he was. "Oh my god," she uttered as her face collapsed in on itself, her hand covering her trembling lips.

"His name's Jack," Drake said.

Audrey knelt in front of the boy and reached her hand out to him, then pulled it away when he took a step back. She looked up at Drake, then back again.

Drake bent to talk to his son. "It's okay, Jack. She's your grandma." He cupped his hand around the back of the boy's head and gave him a gentle push, urging him towards Audrey. "Say hello."

Jack cast one more glance over his shoulder at his dad, then turned to Audrey and said, "Hi." Then he looked at her quizzically and said, "I've never had a grandma before, but I don't think they're supposed to cry. I think they're supposed to make cookies and stuff."

Audrey laughed and dragged her hands across her cheeks. "I think you're right." She sniffled. "No more crying," she said resolutely. "And tomorrow I'll make you all the cookies you want." Her fingers found the edges of his dark bangs and lingered there a moment before pushing them back in the same way she'd always done with Drake.

Jack grinned and looked up at Drake. "Can she, Dad?"

Drake looked from his son to his mother and back to his son. "Sure," he said, trying to smile. He still found it difficult to speak. He knew the tough stuff would come later, but he was endlessly relieved that so far, things had gone better than expected.

Jack turned back to his grandmother. "I like peanut butter ones the best," he stated. "But you have to make some for my dad, too. He likes chocolate chip."

Audrey smiled and looked up at her son. "I know."

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_Please review. Thanks._


	3. Old Dreams & Lullabies

_**TITLE:** Scenes from an Unplanned Life  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game here.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show_ Drake & Josh_. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while._

* * *

Chapter 3: Old Dreams and Lullabies

**POV: Drake, 23 years old**

The day was mercifully almost over. Drake bent to sweep the debris of an impromptu celebration off the coffee table and into a white plastic garbage bag. It wasn't something he had advertised, but twenty-three years ago, he was born. He had surprised Jack with cake, which in the Parker residence meant inserting a candle into a Little Debbie and wishing for the best.

Tension coiled like an angry snake at the base of his skull; he was tired. It was 11:47pm – thirteen minutes until the day was history and he wouldn't have to think about all the ways his life hadn't turned out quite the way he'd planned when he had dreamt of the future back in San Diego. Those kinds of thoughts always plagued him on his birthday – there was something about the marching of time that always reminded him of the past.

When he was a kid, he had been so certain of everything. Now, every day brought another reminder of just how naïve he had been and just how _un_certain life really was. All that could be counted on in this life was that it was hard.

And Jack. He could always count on Jack.

There was a knock on the door. Drake thought for a second about not answering it, but set down the garbage bag and walked to the door, peering through the peephole. Pete McAllister stood on the other side.

Drake undid the chain with a sigh and turned both deadbolts, pulling open the door. The bright light of the hallway made him squint as he leaned his right shoulder against the doorframe. He wasn't really in the mood for visitors.

"Look, man. I know it's late. But…" Pete began, stopping and craning his neck to look past Drake into the darkened apartment. He looked back at Drake, saw the ratty flannel sleeping pants and the gray t-shirt with a hole in the left shoulder seam. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"I was just about to go to bed," Drake said and rubbed the back of his neck absently. The throbbing continued unabated under his palm.

"I'm sorry. I would've been here sooner, but The Dick made me cover another half-shift." The Dick was Dick Thomason, Pete's boss at the bar. The moniker served a dual purpose: it represented both Dick's high opinion of himself (think The Donald) and his staff's low opinion of him. "Anyway, there are still –" he checked his watch – "eight minutes left of your birthday and I wanted to give you this." He reached to his left and pulled back something that made Drake gawk.

A guitar case.

Pete grinned as Drake stared. "Do you like it?"

The silence dragged on a little while longer before Drake found his voice. He looked up and down the hall, then over his shoulder into his apartment, as if debating. Finally he said between gritted teeth, "Get in here." He turned and walked into his apartment.

Pete followed him in, closing the door behind him. He looked at Drake, who stood a few feet away with his arms crossed protectively over his chest. "Do you know what this is?"

"It's a guitar," Drake answered calmly, not looking at it.

Pete grinned again. "It's not just _a_ guitar, Drake. It's _your_ guitar."

Drake's fingers dug into his arms. "What are you talking about?"

"It's your guitar, man. The one you pawned, remember?"

Drake became very still. "That was two years ago," he said softly.

"That's how long I've had it." When Drake didn't respond, Pete continued. "When you told me you pawned it, I went and bought it back. I've been waiting for the right time to give it back to you."

Drake shook his head, massaged his neck again. "Take it back, Pete. I don't…I don't want it."

"Of course you do. You've just convinced yourself that you _can't_ want it." Another pause. Pete could see Drake's Adam's apple bob convulsively in his throat.

The sting of tears pricked Drake's eyes. "I needed the money," he whispered, remembering the day he sold his guitar for rent money. He had only gotten 200 and had had to beg the guy for that much. He hadn't picked up a guitar since. _Two years._

"I know." Pete took two steps towards Drake. "You did what you had to do. And I don't think you would've done it if it had just been you. But you did what was best for the kid. And Jack…he's a great kid. You did that. You're a good father, Drake. He's lucky to have you."

Drake cast a glance in the direction of his son's room, pictured him sleeping on his left side, his right hand wedged beneath his cheek. "Sometimes I wonder," he muttered.

"He is," Pete reiterated. "But he deserves _all_ of you."

"What the hell does that mean?" Drake asked, the words sounding harsher than he intended. His dark eyes focused intently on Pete.

"The first time I met you was when you played at Open Mike Night at the bar. Do you remember that? You were just a kid with a guitar. But you could make it sing." Pete gestured with the hand holding the guitar case. The handle squeaked the way Drake remembered. "This thing makes you whole, man. And you've been walking around the last two years with a piece missing. And I'm tired of waiting for you to realize that."

Drake laughed humorlessly. "Maybe I _have_ realized it. Maybe I just don't care." He was angry – at himself, at Pete, at the world, he wasn't sure. He blinked back tears of frustration. "It was just a dream, Pete. But dreams don't pay the rent. Or buy clothes. Or feed my kid." Drake dropped his arms to his side and felt his hands shaking. He balled them into fists. God, he hated birthdays. "Dreams fade. Real life is permanent."

"Drake, listen to me," Pete continued softly. "I get it, okay? You think you're doing what's best for Jack. I respect that. But you've got a gift, man. A real gift. And you're letting it die because you don't think there's room in your life for dreams."

Drake opened his mouth to speak, but Pete interrupted. "Look, don't say no, alright? Just think about it." He walked over and set the guitar case gently on the coffee table. Going to the door, he turned and said, "Happy birthday, man." Then he left, closing the door with a soft _click_ behind him.

/a/a/a/a/

He had managed to hold out for forty-five minutes – most of which had been spent sitting on the couch staring at it – before finally caving. With trembling fingers, he unfastened the clasps and opened the case. First he ran his eyes over it, then his hands, in a loving caress that remembered every nuance and scratch on the surface. He picked it up and placed it across his knees, his fingers finding their places on the strings without hesitation.

When he struck the first chord he had played in two years, a feeling of completion washed over him and he closed his eyes against the sound. He moved his fingers and played another one, then another. A sudden memory surfaced – he was trying to help Josh impress a girl – Cathy! – and told him that there were a lot of songs that were just three chords. Josh had broken every string on Drake's guitar. _This_ guitar, to be exact.

Drake smiled at the memory. He didn't think about his family often; too much choppy water under that bridge to swim safely to shore. But at that moment, even old wounds didn't carry the same sting.

"Daddy?"

Drake's fingers froze on the strings and he opened his eyes. Jack was standing next to the sofa, staring at him over the arm. The four-year-old boy's hair was a rat's nest of brown and he rubbed his eyes, yawning.

"Hey, bud. Did I wake you up?"

"Where'd you get that?" Jack asked, ignoring the question and pointing at the guitar. He folded his arms on the arm of the couch and waited for an answer.

"Uncle Pete brought it over. It's a birthday present." Drake held the instrument up so Jack could inspect it more closely. "Whaddya think?"

Jack reached out with his left hand and tentatively plucked one of the strings with the tip of his index finger, smiling at the sound. Plucking the string below it, he laughed when he discovered that it made a different sound. He looked up at his dad. "That's cool!" he exclaimed, grinning. "How's it work?"

"Come here," Drake said, setting the guitar on the cushion next to him and pulling the boy over the arm of the couch and onto his lap, eliciting a giggle from him. When Jack was situated where Drake wanted him, he grabbed the guitar and laid it over their laps. "You put your hands like this," he instructed, placing Jack's small hands on the strings and holding them there with his own. Pressing the soft fingers of Jack's left hand into their proper places, he then strummed the strings with their right hands. The rich tone of the A minor chord resonated from the guitar.

Jack laughed, a sound that never failed to elicit a smile from Drake. "Pretty cool, huh?"

Drake felt the boy's head nod against his cheek. "Do another one!" Jack pleaded, squirming eagerly against his dad.

"Okay, okay," Drake obliged, laughing. He rearranged Jack's fingers on the strings, using his own where Jack's couldn't reach. He strummed the strings again; the F# major chord drifted from the guitar.

Jack pulled his hands out from underneath Drake's. He craned his neck to look up at his dad out of the corner of his eye. "Play a song."

Drake sighed, looking down into the boy's eyes. "I don't know, Jack. It's been a long time."

"Please, Daddy? Play me a song." He slid off Drake's lap and scrambled onto the couch, settling back against the cushions. He looked at his dad expectantly.

Drake laughed at the expression on the kid's face. "Alright! But I warn you, I'm a little rusty. So if I mess up, you have to promise not to laugh." He smiled as he remembered something. "You know, I used to play for you all the time when you were a baby."

"Stop stalling," the boy said precociously, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head slightly to the side.

"Tough crowd," Drake quipped, smiling. He mentally flipped through the catalog of songs he had spent the better part of the last two years trying to forget.

"Daaad-dy," Jack intoned impatiently from the corner of the couch.

"Okay, okay. Keep your tiny pants on," Drake said, winking at the boy. "I've got one. This was one of the first songs I ever learned to play."

After a couple of false starts, the classic strains of CCR's "Have You Ever Seen the Rain?" fell effortlessly from the guitar under Drake's guidance.

And for a few moments, he was just a kid with a guitar.

A standing ovation of one accompanied the end of the song. "Play it again! Play it again!" Jack exclaimed, clapping.

Drake felt like he could play forever; he had lost time to make up for. But he looked at his son and said, "Not tonight, Jack." The euphoria was starting to ebb, quickly being replaced by fatigue. He looked at the clock. "It's late," he added, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. "And you have to be at Mrs. Delfino's early in the morning."

"But, Daddy," Jack wheedled, pouting. "Just one more song. Then I'll go right to bed. I _promise._"

Drake was tempted, but his parental sensibilities took over. "Tomorrow night. When I get home from work. I promise."

Jack smirked, thinking it over. "Okay. But why do I have to go to Mrs. Delfino's?"

Setting the guitar gently back in its case, Drake sighed. _Here we go._ "Because you can't come to work with me and Mrs. Delfino is nice enough to look after you for free." Drake fastened the clasps securely, then stood up, propping the guitar against the couch.

Jack slid off the couch and stood looking up at his father. "But she's always kissing me. And she hugs too hard."

Drake started towards Jack's room, the little boy trudging reluctantly behind. "She just likes you, Jack."

"She smells like cheese."

The words caused Drake to throw his head back and laugh. "So what's the problem? You like cheese."

Jack scrambled up onto his bed and underneath the rumpled covers, pulling them up under his arms. "Don't forget your promise," Jack said, changing the subject and gazing seriously at Drake through dark lashes.

"I won't forget," Drake said, tucking the covers around Jack's body. He bent down until their noses were almost touching. "Now go to sleep," he ordered, brushing a kiss across Jack's forehead.

Jack smiled. "Okay."

"Goodnight, bud." Drake stood up and headed for the door.

"'Night."

Drake was almost out the door when he heard Jack say, "You're a good singer, Daddy."

A lump formed instantly in Drake's throat. He looked over his shoulder at the boy who was buried up to his chin in blankets and tried to smile. "Thank you, Jack."

/a/a/a/a/

Across town, a phone rang a few minutes after one. A hand snaked out from underneath a dark green blanket and grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

There was a pause on the other end. Then, "Thank you."

Pete just smiled.

* * *

_Please review. Thanks!_


	4. Words of Love & Other Lies

_**TITLE:** Scenes from an Unplanned Life  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game here.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show_ Drake & Josh_. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while._

_**A/N:** Josh speaks...(and he wouldn't shut up!). :o)_

* * *

Chapter 4: Words of Love & Other Lies

**POV: Josh, 19 years old**

It was colder than he expected and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, holding his arms close to his sides to stay warm. Puffs of warm breath clouded the air in front of him as he walked resolutely back towards campus, not looking back.

It had been nearing one in the morning when his cram session ended – he had a huge calculus exam in two days – and he had stepped out of the library into a cool night that held the promise of cold.

He should've gone straight to his dorm like the responsible young man his parents thought he was. But his route home had taken him right past the all-night bakery and the temptation that was a banana nut chocolate chip muffin had been too strong to resist.

He had only meant to drive her home.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The bell on the door jingled cheerfully as he stepped in and his mouth curved into a smile as he started salivating like one of Pavlov's dogs. He loved bakeries – the warm, yeasty smell of fresh baked bread, the sharp and sweet aroma of chocolate. If he died, he wanted it to be in a bakery.

Amy worked the graveyard shift and she smiled when she saw him, using a napkin to hold her place in her sociology book. "Well if it isn't my favorite customer," she said, pushing a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

"More like your _only_ customer," Josh said, smiling back. He was usually the only one in there that time of night. It was a slow time – the time between when normal people went to bed and when the nightclubs let out.

"Not tonight," she said, gesturing over her shoulder. A woman was sitting at a table in the very back, gazing out the window, cradling her cup of coffee in her palms.

It was an unusual occurrence for someone else to be there, but not unheard of, and he didn't give it much thought as he turned his attention to the brightly lit display case full of inviting confections. "Hmmm," he murmured, tapping his finger against his teeth. "What do I want?"

Amy rolled her eyes as she watched him. It was always the same ritual; and he always ordered the same thing.

"I think I'll have…" he started, a small smile of anticipation curving his lips, "…a banana nut chocolate chip muffin."

"…a banana nut chocolate chip muffin," she said along with him.

He looked at her. "I'm that predictable, huh?"

"Like the sun," she quipped. "Live a little. Have a cookie." She smiled, her eyes twinkling.

"But," he protested, "the cookies are unknown variables. The banana nut chocolate chip muffin is a known quantity. With the muffin, there is no uncertainty."

"Math test coming up?" she asked, laughing.

"Yeah. In two days. And I need my potassium. Bananas are brain food." He gave her his best puppy dog look. "I _need_ my muffin, Muffin," he said, batting his eyelashes.

Amy rolled her eyes again. "Oh, please. Save that for someone who actually likes you," she gibed good-naturedly.

"Ouch," he replied, clutching his heart. "You wound me with your cruel words." He waggled his eyebrows. "But you know what would make me feel better?"

"Don't tell me," she replied, shaking her head. "A banana nut chocolate chip muffin?"

"_Ding, ding, ding!_ The lady wins not only the new cookware, but a lifetime supply of soup to go with it!" He grinned.

Amy chuckled to herself as she snatched a piece of wax paper from the box on the counter. When she bent to retrieve the muffin, she said, "Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh? What uh-oh?"

She stood back up, gazing at him with a serious expression. "I'm afraid we're out."

"What? Out? What?" he asked, bending to look through the glass where his favorite treats usually resided. Sure enough, the tray marked "Banana Nut Chocolate Chip Muffins" stood empty; nary a crumb left.

She let him squirm for a few more seconds, just until his expression of mock desolation morphed into genuine disappointment. "There are some in the oven, you big baby. They'll be done in a couple minutes." She smiled at his smile. "Have a seat before you die of hunger right here on the floor."

"I wuv you," he said ingratiatingly.

She snorted. "I'll bet you say that to every girl that makes you muffins."

He laughed. "Yeah, but no one's muffins are as good as yours." He winked, delighted that she was blushing in spite of herself. Walking a few feet away, he sat down at the table nearest the door.

When Amy disappeared through the kitchen door, he looked around. The woman in the back was still there, staring out the window.

A white paper bag was plopped down on the table in front of him a couple minutes later. "Here you go," Amy said.

He picked up the bag and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes in pleasure. "Oh yeah, that's the stuff," he murmured.

Amy just laughed. "You should really see someone about your problem."

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. "It's only a problem if I can't control it. I could stop any time I want. I _choose_ not to." He hefted the bag again, then raised one eyebrow. "Either these muffins have gotten bigger, or there's a surprise inside," he intoned, grinning at her.

"Just a little something for later," Amy said. "Something _different._"

"Sneaky," he said, then nodded knowingly. "It's always the quiet ones." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. "How much?" he asked.

Just then, the woman in the back pushed her chair out – a soft scuffing noise of metal over tile – and stood up. They stopped their conversation to look at her, watching as she fumbled in her purse for some bills and dropped them on the table. She looked in their direction and they looked away. Amy put up her hand when Josh opened his wallet. "Forget it," she said.

"But –" he protested, his attention being drawn once again to the woman as she walked behind them towards the door. He could see when she passed that she was older – just this side of forty, he would guess – nearly twice his age. She also seemed to be walking extra carefully, as if she was trying not to fall. The bell on the door jingled as she walked out. She paused to look around, then turned left, disappearing out of view.

He looked back at Amy, who had also been watching the woman leave. "Come on, how much?"

Amy just shook her head. "Nope." She walked to the back table and picked up the bills the woman had left behind, her eyes widening, and she brought them closer for a better look. She looked at him, a stunned smile creeping across her mouth. "How 'bout we let her pay for it?"

"What are you talking about?" he asked, coming closer.

She held out the money. "A hundred bucks. She left me a hundred bucks."

He looked at the bills. Two fifties. "Now that's what I call a good tip." He looked over his shoulder in the direction she had gone, then back to Amy. "Can I borrow fifty bucks?" he asked, laughing.

She smiled as she put the money in her pocket, leaning down to pick up the empty coffee cup. Dark-colored lipstick smeared the rim. A crumpled napkin stained with the same shade was on the table next to the cup. "No," she said, then bent to grab something from the floor. "But do you need a new car?"

"Huh?" he asked, confused.

Amy stood up, holding out a set of keys. "She left these." She looked at them more closely. "BMW. Huh. No wonder she left such a big tip. She can afford it." Then she shrugged. "She'll be back. She can't go far."

He held out his hand. "Give 'em to me."

"Why?"

"I'll take 'em to her. Like you said, she can't go far. Besides, she went the direction I'm going anyway." He held out his hand.

Amy rolled her eyes. "The perpetual Boy Scout," she quipped, dropping the keys into his palm.

"I can't help it," he explained. "It's genetic. I come from a long line of nice guys." He smiled.

"You _have_ heard the one about nice guys always finishing last, haven't you?" she asked.

"It's not where you place, it's how you get there," he countered, winking.

She groaned. "Always the eternal optimist."

"That's me." He shook the bag. "Thanks again."

"Sure," she said. "Be careful walking home."

He was at the door. "Yes, Mom." He laughed. "See ya," he said as he pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped into the cool night air. He looked to his left. Way up ahead, about two blocks, he saw her. She really hadn't gone far; he'd be able to catch up to her easily.

He started after her.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Josh shrugged his backpack back onto his shoulders. In his haste, it had started to slip. But he couldn't stop because stopping meant he'd have to think about it. As long as he kept moving, he could at least concentrate on the next step.

He balled his hands into fists deep inside his pockets. The temperature was dropping.

Maybe it was just his heart freezing him from the inside out.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

As he approached her, he could tell that something was not quite right with her. The careful walk he had noticed back at the bakery had slipped – outside the presence of prying eyes – into something more like a labored shuffle.

"Excuse me," he said.

She didn't turn around.

He reached out a hand to her, touched her shoulder gently. "Ma'am?"

She jerked beneath his hand, startled at his touch. When she turned to look at him, he could see that her eyes were red.

He held out her keys. "You left these at the bakery," he said gently.

Her eyes fell to the keys in his hand, then moved up to meet his again, full of confusion. "Excuse me?" she asked, the words slurring slightly.

Josh pinpointed the cause of the labored walk and the red eyes. She had been drinking – and she was trying to hide it.

"Your keys," he said again. "You accidentally left them back at the bakery." He held them out again.

"My keys…" she said softly, her voice trailing off. She looked back down at the keys in Josh's hand, then lifted a trembling hand and grabbed them, her fingertips brushing lightly against his palm. She squeezed them tightly, whispering, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Josh replied, studying her closely. She looked fragile, like she could self-destruct at any moment, crumbling into a million tiny pieces at his feet.

She nodded and started to walk away, a bit unsteadily.

Josh watched her for a few moments in silence, a growing feeling of anxiety washing over him. He shouldn't get involved, but he couldn't help himself. The little voice of his conscience just wouldn't let him walk away.

He caught up with her again. She had stopped; she was leaning against the concrete base of a streetlamp, gazing distractedly down the dark street. A car passed, its headlights washing over her, and she turned away.

Josh stood in front of her and she focused her sad eyes on him.

"Hey," he began gently, meeting her gaze. "Are you okay?"

She just stared at him silently for a long moment, then let out a long, jagged sigh that carried the scent of alcohol. Josh could see her chin start to tremble and knew what was coming even before the first tears spilled over her cheeks. "No," she said hoarsely. "No, I'm not." She started sobbing, her entire body shaking with the force of her emotion.

Josh stood frozen. He reached out to her automatically, resting his hand on her shoulder. Her beige coat was soft and felt expensive. All the words he thought to say seemed inadequate, so he didn't say anything at all.

After a few awkward moments, she looked up, wiping her eyes. Her mascara was smudged a little beneath her right eye. "I'm sorry," she said. She tried to smile. "It's been a bad day."

"It's alright," he said, watching as she dug in her purse.

She pulled out a crumpled tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "My husband is divorcing me," she shared, "after seventeen years."

Josh shifted his weight uncomfortably, wondering why she was telling him this. She didn't know him from Adam. "I-I'm sorry," he said, feeling embarrassed.

She waved her hand absently. "It's not your fault he's an asshole." She straightened, pulling her body into a standing position with obvious difficulty. Dizziness seized her and she reached out to him.

Taking her arm, Josh helped steady her. "Maybe you should sit down," he suggested.

"I'm fine," she insisted, shaking her head.

"Just for a minute." She didn't resist when he led her to a bench next to a row of rusty newspaper boxes and helped her sit. He sat down beside her.

"I'm Jane," she said softly after a moment.

"Josh." He looked at her – she was beautiful in an elegant, out-of-reach sort of way. Her dark brown hair was pulled away from her face, held in place by a silver clip that reflected the yellow glow of the streetlight. Her skin was pale and smooth, the years residing in the creases around her eyes. A diamond sparkled on her earlobe.

"I never thought I'd end up alone," she said, her voice soft. She looked around the near-empty street. "But here I am."

Josh didn't know what to say. He was just about to open his mouth to spew forth some inane words of comfort when she interrupted him.

"You don't have to stay with me; I'll be fine." Her speech was more coherent, but her _s's_ still hissed a little. She was starting to sober up, but she still had a ways to go.

"I'm sorry you're sad, Jane," he said. It felt strange calling her by her first name, but she hadn't told him her last name. He looked down at his hands and noticed that he still held the paper bakery bag. Looking back at her, he smiled a little. "Here," he said suddenly, reaching into the bag and pulling out his muffin. He held it out to her.

She looked at it, then at him. "What is it?"

"Only the best banana nut chocolate chip muffin you'll ever have in your life. It's guaranteed to bring a smile to your face." He wiggled the muffin between his fingers, trying to entice her.

She looked at him skeptically. "Thank you, but…"

"Come on," he wheedled, wiggling the muffin again. When she still hesitated, he said more seriously, "Look, I know I sound like a dumb kid trying to put a band aid on bullet wound. It's just a muffin. It won't change what happened. But for a couple minutes, it just might make you feel a little better." He smiled sympathetically. "Besides, it tastes _really_ good."

She just looked at him, the hint of a smile appearing on her lips. "Thanks," she said very softly, taking the muffin. She pinched off a small piece between her thumb and forefinger and put it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"So?" Josh prodded.

Jane smiled despite herself – a sad smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's good."

"That's all?" he asked, feigning disappointment.

A brittle laugh escaped from her lips. "It's wonderful," she said, looking at him. "It's delicious. It's the best damn muffin I've ever tasted." She caught his eyes and held his gaze for a moment. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he replied. "Spreading cheer through muffins. It's my personal crusade." He smiled.

"No," she said. "Thank you for listening. For being here."

Josh felt a blush creeping up his neck. "Anyone would've done it," he said shyly.

"No they wouldn't've," she said evenly. "You're a good person, Josh."

Josh didn't know how to respond.

After a moment, she stood up, wobbled unsteadily on her feet, then sank back onto the bench. "I think I'm still drunk," she announced. "I've never been drunk before." She thought about it for a second. "It's not entirely bad." She smiled, looking at him.

"Let me drive you home," he said, the words exiting his mouth before he could stop them.

She waved her hand in the air, shaking her head. "No, no. You've done enough. Above and beyond enough. I'll just call a cab."

"Where do you live?" he asked her, insistent.

"Just about a mile north of here. At the foot of the hills." She dug in her purse again with one hand and pulled out a tiny red cell phone. "But really, a cab is fine."

"Don't be silly. In the time it would take them to get here, I could drive you home and back twice. Come on," he said, giving her his best Boy Scout look. "I'm an excellent driver."

"What about you? How will you get home?" She was at least beginning to think more clearly.

"I'll walk," he said. "I live near there." It was a lie, of course, but a small one. His dorm was actually only two blocks from where they now sat.

She thought about it for a moment, her eyes – Josh could see now that they were blue – scanning his face for a sign of danger or insincerity. He looked back at her completely guileless. "If you're sure," she said, then yawned as if on cue. "I _am_ tired. I could use about twelve hours of sleep."

"Then it's settled," Josh said, standing and holding out his hand.

Ten minutes later, he was behind the wheel of the most expensive car he had ever driven and was, admittedly, a little giddy about it. Leather seats, satellite radio, in-dash GPS – she laughed when he couldn't figure out how to adjust the seat to fit his height. She reached over and pressed a switch on the console; the seat slid almost soundlessly back.

"You like it?" she asked.

"_Yeah_ I do!" he proclaimed. "Does it have a sister?" He grinned.

Jane laughed. "My husband gave it to me for our anniversary."

"Well," Josh said, gripping the steering wheel in his hands. "I hope you get to keep it. When you take him to the cleaners, I mean."

"Damn straight," she said, with more confidence than she had spoken with all night. "And the house. And the diamonds. And the credit cards." She laughed again, almost carelessly.

Josh looked over at her across the expanse of the front seat. "Where to, my lady?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

He was all-out shivering now. He'd heard somewhere that it was always the coldest right before dawn. Looking east, he supposed now that it was true. The dark sky was just the faintest shade of gray and he knew that in less than an hour, the first embryonic rays of the sun would begin to turn the sky pink.

He had turned down the wrong street about a half-mile back and had had to retrace his steps. With his mind racing and his breath burning in his lungs, he hadn't been paying attention.

All he wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed, and sleep away the self-disgust that was building up inside of him.

He didn't think he would ever forgive himself.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

He walked her up the elaborate front walk and to the front door, unlocking the deadbolt with the only other key on the key ring. "Home sweet home," he said, opening the door. The sound echoed off the glass and marble in the huge foyer. He held the keys out to her, dangling them between his fingers.

She took the keys from him for the second time in an hour and looked up at him, a strange look on her face. She was nearly six inches shorter than him, even in heels, and she had to crane her neck to look at him.

"Thank you," she whispered, moving a half-step closer. Josh could feel her warm breath against his face. "For everything."

"You're welcome," he said, taking a step back. He was now standing on the step below her; they were eye level. "I really hope everything works out for you," he added sincerely.

She kissed him suddenly and the surprise of it stole his breath. It took him a second to get his bearings, but then he gripped her by the shoulders and gently pushed her away. She looked at him, wide-eyed.

"Jane."

"Don't," she whispered. "Don't say anything."

But he had to. He wasn't good with awkward silences. "I think –" he began.

"Then don't," she interrupted, inching closer. "Don't think." And before he could anticipate it, she was kissing him again.

Her hand found his cheek and her tongue found his bottom lip. He opened his lips involuntarily, fireworks exploding inside his brain at the sensation of her tongue sliding against his. His fingers gripped the soft folds of her coat.

Her lips were soft; she tasted like wine and sadness.

When he followed her inside, he knew there was no going back.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The dorm lobby was empty when he pushed through the glass doors, his sneakers squeaking on the recently waxed floor. Suddenly, he was exhausted and he shuffled heavily to the stairwell. He lived on the fourth floor and the dorm had no elevators.

The heavy metal door seemed even heavier as he pushed his weight against it. By the time he reached his floor, his knees were ready to give out. He walked to his door, shoulders slumping under the weight of his guilt. With trembling fingers, he unlocked his door. The slice of light from the hallway illuminated his roommate, Brian's, side of the room. Brian wasn't there – he spent most nights at his girlfriend's apartment.

Josh sighed heavily and dropped his backpack on the floor with a _thud._ Closing the door behind him, he took the three long steps to his bed and collapsed onto it, face down.

"_I've never done this before," he confessed, feeling a blush creep up his neck, grateful for the darkness._

"_That's okay," she whispered against his neck, and he could feel her smile._

He didn't want to think about it, but the thoughts came uninvited, crowding his mind like clowns in a tiny car. Rolling on his left side, he drew his knees up, burying his face in the pillow.

He could still smell her; she clung to his clothes, his hair, his skin – a mixture of expensive perfume and sweat, of despair and sex. His stomach started to hurt.

"_Do you think I'm beautiful?" she asked in a fragile voice._

"_Yes," he whispered._

The phone rang and Josh jumped, startled by the sound in the early morning quiet. He reached for the phone automatically, pressing the receiver to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hey, did I wake you?" It was Brian.

"No," Josh replied. He looked at the clock; it was almost five in the morning. "I wasn't sleeping."

"Oh," Brian said nonchalantly. "Listen, I need you to do me a huge favor. I need you to bring my Chemistry notebook to class for me. I'm on my way to work and I won't be able to stop by and get it before class."

Josh pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine," he said wearily.

"Thanks." Brian was quiet for a second. He seemed to be waiting for the smart comment Josh always gave him when he asked Josh for a favor. When he didn't comment, Brian asked, "You okay?"

Josh shut his eyes. "Yeah. I'm just tired. I was studying until late last night." It wasn't a _complete_ lie.

"Okay, then. And thanks for bringing my notebook. See you later." He hung up.

"Bye," Josh muttered into the empty room, pushing the TALK button with a _beep._

He sat up, his feet resting on the floor. Cradling his head in his hands, elbows propped on his knees, he let out a shaky breath. After a moment, he stood and started removing his shirt.

_Her hands were soft, he noticed, as she laid her palms flat against his chest. "So young," she whispered, her voice so low he barely heard her. He shivered as she slowly drew her hands down across his stomach, where they came to rest at his belt. Her dexterous fingers made quick work of the buckle, then the button and the zipper._

_He didn't know what to do with his own hands._

He stood naked in the middle of his room, trembling from head to toe, her voice in his head. It was her voice he would remember the most.

_He was inside her and it suddenly occurred to him that time was spinning out of control; he couldn't for the life of him figure out how he had gotten to this place. But then her nails were digging into his back and her legs were around his waist and her breath was hot against his ear and he really couldn't think at all._

"_Josh," she whispered, her voice urgent. "Josh."_

_The sound of his own name sounded foreign to him._

The hot water stung his skin and he inhaled sharply through his teeth. He reached over his shoulder and ran his fingers lightly over his shoulder blade. Four raised scratches ran parallel over his skin. He repeated the procedure with the other side – an identical set of scratches.

Then the tears came, unbidden, mixing with the water on his face. He leaned against the wall of the shower stall, the tile cool against his cheek. His body shook with sobs, his cries reverberating off the tile like a broken song.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"_Tell me you love me," she said after her breathing had slowed, her fingers woven through his sweaty hair._

_He had his head buried in the curve of her shoulder and the sound of his own ragged breathing was loud in his ears. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down at her. "What?"_

_She was crying, the tears rolling down her temples as she looked up at him. "Tell me you love me," she whispered again, touching his face._

"_But…I…" Josh managed._

"_You don't have to mean it."_

_Josh opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off._

"_Please," she said. "Just lie to me."_

_So he did. And he hated himself for it._

A year ago, there would've been one person he could talk to, one person who would've listened and would've known what to say. He might've made a joke or two, but he would've understood.

Josh stared up at the ceiling and thought – for the millionth time – about the day that Drake had walked out of his life. It still made him angry, but his brother had always been impulsive and stubborn. Those traits had never failed to get Drake into trouble, but Josh had always been there to smooth the waters.

The problem this time was that Josh couldn't make it better – Drake hadn't told them where he was going; he hadn't even known himself at the time. He had simply left.

And he hadn't even said goodbye.

* * *

_Please review. Thank you._

_And thanks again to all the people who have reviewed so far. I REALLY appreciate it._


	5. A Change of Plans

_**TITLE:** Scenes from an Unplanned Life  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game here.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show_ Drake & Josh_. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while._

_**A/N:** Please remember, these "chapters" are **not** in chronological order. They are pieces of a greater puzzle. Also, please excuse the shameless plug for my beloved alma mater. Go Gators!_

* * *

Chapter 5: A Change of Plans

**POV: Drake, 18 years old**

"Hey, kid." The words were spoken gruffly, in a voice tinged with impatience and a roughness brought on by a prolonged three-pack-a-day habit. Drake opened his eyes. The gray-haired bus driver stood over him, his wrinkled shirt taut over a middle aged paunch that could be attributed to countless pre-wrapped processed foods eaten over endless hours of highway driving.

"Where are we?" Drake asked, sitting up. He felt a twinge in his neck. Tomorrow, he probably wouldn't be able to turn his head to the left.

"Gainesville, Florida. We had to make an emergency stop."

"Why?" Drake asked. He was on his way to Key West. Three days ago, as he sat at a table in the back corner of a diner in Redding, nursing a cup of coffee as the clock ticked off the minutes until midnight, he had decided on Key West. He had spent the last three months making his way through California, running as far as his meager savings and his still-sharp anger could carry him. But Redding hadn't been far enough – it was still in California, after all. He wanted to do something bold. Something drastic. Something that would make it harder to change his mind. He had chosen Key West for two reasons – it was warm and it was just about as far from San Diego as he could get and still be in the United States.

"Cracked engine block. Bus is outta commission. They're sending a tow truck and unless you wanna take a ride back in the direction we just came, I suggest you get off and wait inside. They're sending another bus."

"How long 'til it gets here?" Drake asked, looking at his watch. He'd already been on the bus for what felt like a lifetime and just wanted to get there.

"Couple hours. Give or take." And with that, the driver turned and shuffled down the middle aisle.

Drake watched him in silence as he stepped off the bus._ A couple hours. Give or take._ He should've flown, but he couldn't spare the expense.

Grudgingly, Drake maneuvered his guitar case from between his knees and stood up. He had kept hold of it even as he dozed, afraid that someone would steal it. Standing, he reached into the overhead rack and grabbed his backpack. Everything else he had brought with him – a few clothes, some CDs – was in it and he slung it over his shoulder and headed towards the front of the bus, holding the guitar case in front of him.

The humidity struck him like a monster truck when he stepped off the bus and into the Florida heat. It was the middle of September. He blinked rapidly in the bright sunshine and massaged the side of his neck – falling asleep against the window of a dingy Greyhound bus was not conducive to comfort.

The small bus station shimmered like a mirage in the desert and when he walked inside, he felt like he had stepped into some kind of time warp. Rows of cracked plastic chairs that Drake guessed used to be blue but were now a sickly shade of gray lined the room. A ticket agent sat behind a now-opaque plexiglass window protected by rusty metal bars. Her head was down as if she herself was trying to avoid the grim view. A Coke machine Drake thought was older than he was rattled ominously in the corner, every button flashing its red "Sold Out" light.

He chose an empty seat in the corner and slumped into it. Two seats away, an old man was staring at him. Drake nodded at him and looked away. After a minute, he noticed the man still staring at him. "Can I help you?" Drake asked, a little annoyed.

A slow smile spread across the man's face. "You waitin' on a bus?" he asked.

Drake lifted one eyebrow. "Uh, yeah." He _was_ in a bus station; he thought that would've been obvious.

"Where you goin'?" the old man asked, his voice as thin as parchment.

The way the guy didn't seem to blink was a little unnerving. Drake decided not to give too many details. "South," he said.

"South," the man repeated. "It's nice down there." He nodded slowly in emphasis.

"Yeah," Drake said, gripping the handle of his guitar case. "So I've heard." He stood up. "Excuse me," he said and hastily walked into the men's room. He walked into the handicapped stall at the far end and closed the door behind him, sliding the latch into place. Propping his guitar against the wall next to the sink, he dropped his backpack on the floor next to it. He took a deep breath, smelled the faint odors of bleach and stale cigarette smoke.

He was tired. This was the thirty-eighth town they had passed through in the last three days. There had been twenty-seven layovers, ranging from five minutes to three hours. But most of the time had been spent traveling, crammed into a small bus seat surrounded by strangers he didn't want to know. Other times were spent killing time waiting for the next bus and eating food that had enough preservatives in it to last until the next Ice Age. It had taken four transfers to reach this point – one each in Sacramento, Los Angeles, Dallas, and Atlanta. Turning on the faucet, he bent to cup some water into his hands, throwing the water over his face. He reached for some paper towels – there actually were some, he was surprised to discover – and patted his face dry, looking at himself in the mirror.

He had been eighteen for three and a half months – officially an adult. Which is exactly what he had told his parents when they wanted him to really think about his future – _"We just think you need to explore your options."_ When they mentioned the words "community college," he had had enough. They couldn't tell him what to do anymore; he didn't have to answer to them. They had given him the "while you're under our roof" speech – in the heat of the moment – and he had countered with the obligatory "then I won't _be_ under your roof anymore" response.

The whole thing had been building for a few weeks before that, a clash that had ultimately resulted in him leaving one morning before dawn without even saying goodbye. He regretted that now – especially when it came to Josh and Megan – but he had been afraid that if he had to look them in the eye and tell them that he was leaving, that he wouldn't be able to. Besides, he had later justified to himself, he was just expediting the inevitable. Josh was leaving for college at the end of August and they would've had to part ways anyway. Josh had already started sporting his wounded kitten look whenever he talked about college – the one Drake couldn't bear to see. So he had decided to do it quick, like pulling off a band aid. It would only hurt for a second.

Except he was wrong. It still hurt – the guilt sitting heavily in his stomach like a stone. He had spent the first two weeks secretly staying in Trevor's room, nursing his anger, and the fact that no one had called there looking for him had made him even angrier. But the anger that had carried him to the bus station in Redding had nearly vanished by the time he had reached Phoenix and was completely gone by the time the bus had rolled into the station in Dallas a day ago. It seemed the farther east he went, the more his anger receded. But he hadn't known how to fix it – humility was not his strong suit and unless they were words to a song, eloquence escaped him.

He had left his cell phone sitting in plain sight on the kitchen table – his way of saying, "Don't call me, I'll call you." It was the exclamation point at the end of his statement of independence. Later, outside the dingy bus station in Shreveport where he was waiting until his bus left, he leaned against the wall next to a decrepit old pay phone with a pocketful of quarters, intent on making the call. He had gone so far as to dial the number – his fingers trembling – and listen to the rings through the pounding in his ears. But he had closed his eyes when the answering machine had picked up, "Hi, you have reached Audrey, Walter, Josh…," each person saying their own name on the recording. He had hung up before his own name, part of him afraid that it wouldn't be there any longer.

That had only been a day ago. But it felt like forever.

Drake looked at himself again. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to take a shower. He wanted to eat a meal that didn't come out of a package. He dug in his pocket for his wallet and opened it, pulling out the money he had left. Counting it, he frowned. He had less than 200 dollars left – he had gone through more than 1300 in three months. Where it had all gone he couldn't remember, except that the bus ticket itself had cost him over 200. At this rate, he'd be out of money in a month. Then what?

He didn't have the answer to that.

Sighing, he stuffed the money back into his wallet and slipped his wallet back into his pocket. Two hundred dollars was plenty to get him to where he was going. He'd worry about the rest later.

Gathering up his things, he exited the bathroom. The old man was resting his head against the back of his chair, eyes closed. Drake walked stealthily to a chair at the opposite end of the room and sat down, resting his backpack on his lap, holding it in one hand while the other hand gripped his guitar case.

In no time, he was asleep.

When he awoke, the sunlight streaming through the windows had been replaced by dim overhead fluorescents. It was dark outside. He felt someone looking at him and looked to his left. The old man from earlier sat staring back at him, unblinking.

The old man smiled. "I think you missed your bus."

Drake looked around. He and the old man were the only two people still waiting. A heavy feeling clutched at his insides. Ignoring the old man, Drake stood up, hauling his things to the ticket window. There was a man sitting behind the barred glass, reading a magazine.

"Excuse me," Drake asked, waiting for the man to look up at him. "Did the replacement bus for the passengers going to Key West come yet?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

The man checked a list. "That bus came and went an hour ago."

Drake closed his eyes, resting his head in the crook of his elbow on the counter. "When's the next one?" he asked wearily, looking up again.

Consulting the list again, the man answered, " There ain't another bus headed to the Keys until Tuesday." It was Saturday night.

"What?" Drake asked. "Why so long?" He was so tired of waiting. He was so _tired._

The man shrugged. "That route only comes through here twice a week. Ain't no demand for it." He picked up his magazine again, turning his attention to it.

Drake stared at the man in silence for a moment, then mumbled an irritated, "Thanks."

The old man was still grinning at him when he turned around. "Still going south?" he asked.

Drake bit back the harsh reply that sprang to mind. Instead, he said nothing as he pushed through the door and into the humid Florida night.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

He nodded sleepily into his coffee cup. Sitting at the counter in a cozy little diner, he was almost asleep.

"You look wiped," the waitress said softly, setting the coffee pot on the counter.

Drake lifted his head slowly, his tired eyes taking a moment to focus. A forty-ish woman with dark blonde hair and kind brown eyes looked back at him. He smiled lopsidedly. "That obvious, huh?"

She chuckled. "You were almost droolin' in your coffee."

Drake snorted. "It's been a long day," he replied, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. He looked around – the place was empty except for the two of them. "Slow night," he commented.

"For now," she replied. The small gold-colored pin on her lapel said her name was Phyllis. "Wait until the game lets out."

"Game?" Drake asked curiously.

Phyllis smiled at him. "You're not from around here, are you?"

Drake shook his head. "I'm headed south. I fell asleep and missed my bus," he said sheepishly.

"Well, enjoy the quiet while it lasts. 'Cause in less than an hour, this place'll be full of hungry football fans demandin' their dinner." Phyllis snapped her fingers. "That reminds me. Let's find out how the boys're doin'." Her southern drawl caused her to drop every "g" at the end of her words.

She pulled out a radio from underneath the counter and turned it on, tuning it to the correct station. The raucous sound of a college football game echoed from the speakers. The excited voice of the announcer was in the middle of blaring, "…57 yards for a touchdown! Oh my! What a return! That puts the Gators ahead 41 to 3 with 17 seconds left! Oh my…" Phyllis switched it off. She smiled at Drake. "Looks like the boys are gonna win again," she said. "At least everyone'll be happy tonight."

"What college is here?" he asked, feeling a little stupid.

"Why, _the_ –" she pronounced it _thee_ " – University of Florida, of course. Home of the Gators." She winked at him. "We take our football very seriously."

Drake replied, "I can see that."

"Where are you from?" she asked, leaning in the counter.

"California," he answered. "San Diego."

She whistled between her teeth. "That's a long way from here," she said. "What brings you to Florida?"

It was a question he didn't want to answer. He looked at her, trying to decide what to say. Finally, he did what he always did – he fell back on his charm. "The company," he said, smiling.

Phyllis laughed. "Yeah, right." She studied him closely, her eyes scanning his face until he squirmed slightly under the scrutiny. "You need a place to stay?" she asked suddenly, straightening.

"Huh?" Drake asked, startled.

"My aunt – she's a real sweet lady – has a room for rent." She raised one eyebrow. "If you're interested."

Drake demurred, waving his hand in the air between them and shaking his head. "I won't be here that long. I'm leaving on Tuesday. But thanks anyway."

She gave him a small smile, tilting her head slightly to the side. "Sure." She paused, assessing him some more. Then she pulled her order pad from her apron pocket and clicked open her retractable pen. "My aunt," she said, scribbling, "just loves the guitar." She pronounced it "_gi_-tar." She tore off the piece of paper and handed it to him. The name Mildred Wallace, an address, and a phone number with a 352 area code were written on it. Underneath that was written, "Aunt Millie, He's a nice boy. And he plays the guitar! Love, Phyl."

Drake tried to hand it back. "No, really…" he began.

She cut him off by putting up her hand. "Three days is a long time," she said. "Plans can change." She smiled. "Just keep it. Humor an old lady."

After a moment of contemplation, Drake folded the paper and put it in his pocket. "Thanks," he said softly.

"You're welcome." She looked at her watch. "Oh my. I better make some more coffee. The natives get restless if they don't get their coffee." She gave him a wink and turned away, busying herself with the coffee maker.

Drake watched her in silence as she expertly prepared the coffee. The bell over the door jingled him out of his reverie and he looked up. A group of six people pushed through the door, whooping it up, dressed in an outrageous array of orange and blue.

"We need food!" one of them exclaimed as they crammed into a booth.

"See, I told you," Phyllis whispered conspiratorially to him across the counter.

Drake just smiled. While she was busy with the newcomers, he took out his wallet, dropped twenty bucks onto the counter – he didn't think she'd take it if she was looking – and pushed out the door past another group of hungry college students coming in for their post-victory meal.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

It was a quiet neighborhood. The house he was looking for was on the left-hand side, third house from the corner. It sat back from the road, its upper floor almost completely obscured by trees. An older house, it had peeling paint and a sagging front porch, the boards creaking under his feet as he walked to the door.

He rapped his knuckles against the frame of the screen door and waited, a folded piece of paper in his left hand. After a moment, the door opened and a tiny woman in her sixties peered out at him through the screen.

"Mrs. Wallace?" Drake asked.

"Yes?" she asked, stepping closer.

"Hi," he said tentatively. "My name is Drake Parker. Your niece said you had a room for rent." He held out the piece of paper. "She gave me this."

Mildred Wallace opened the door and took the paper from his hand, setting the glasses that were dangling from a silver chain around her neck onto her nose. As she read the note, she smiled. "Do you know the song, 'The Yellow Rose of Texas?'" she asked, looking up at him. "That's my favorite."

Drake smiled. "No, ma'am," he said. "But I can learn."

His life had just changed forever, but he didn't know it yet.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

He had the taste of cigarettes in his mouth. He lay awake next to a girl whose name he couldn't remember – he wasn't really sure she had even told him – and briefly wondered where he was.

Then it dawned on him. He had agreed to be the fill-in guitarist for a local garage band at a gig they had booked at a fraternity party. The fraternity had needed cheap entertainment and Drake had needed the money. He had only been in town for two weeks, but he had already run out of money and the bartender at a bar he played at one night knew a guy who knew the singer in the band whose guitarist had just come down with appendicitis. It only paid 100 bucks, but he'd take it.

The band was terrible, really, if you asked him – just a lot of eardrum-splitting noise and no substance – but the gig was a gift horse and he wasn't about to look it in the mouth. Mrs. Wallace was doing him a favor (he _knew_ that she was asking a lot less for rent than what it was worth) and he didn't want to betray her trust in him.

So he played his part with as much gusto as he could muster – it was easy work, actually, since the key was just to sound as much like a chainsaw as possible – and gulped down cup after cup of what was called fruit punch, but what Drake suspected had a much higher octane rating.

He was in a random room with a random girl whose clothes, as well as his, were spread out randomly on the floor. A thin blade of light knifed beneath the door, cutting across the bed. He looked over at her, vaguely remembering the way her long dark hair felt against his face. She had been wearing a red shirt that was cut low enough to reveal just the top of a tattoo on her left breast – a tattoo that he'd later discover was a butterfly. She smoked Marlboro Lights and had laughed when he turned down the one she had offered him.

"_I don't smoke," he said. They were sitting on the edge of a bed in someone else's bedroom. He couldn't quite remember how he had gotten there._

"_No?" she asked, laughing. "Imagine that. A rock star who doesn't smoke." She slid closer to him, her fingers snaking slowly up the inside of his thigh, stopping when they brushed against his groin. Her grin widened, the tip of her tongue between her teeth. "So, rock star. You got a name?"_

"_Drake," he whispered, clenching his teeth. He looked into her eyes, thought they were blue. "Drake P–"_

"_Eh eh," she teased. "'Drake' is just fine." She captured his mouth in her own, pushing her tongue past his teeth. After a moment, she pulled back, her lips wet._

_Drake licked his own lips, tasted cigarettes and cherry lip gloss. His eyes focused on her mouth when she spoke next. "Smoking relaxes me, Drake." Suddenly she threw her leg across his lap, straddling him, her weight pushing him back onto the bed. She stared down at him, her hair tickling his face. "What do _you_ do to relax?"_

He thought he should get up, go home. He had no idea what time it was, but knew it was really late. But she was breathing evenly next to him and the sound lulled him to sleep before he could even sit up.

When he woke up again, she was gone.

Much later, he would discover that her name was Kelly. And her eyes weren't blue. They were gray.

* * *

_Feedback is like discovering that there's one more chocolate chip cookie left in the package. Please review. Thank you._


	6. A Night to Remember

_**TITLE:** Scenes from an Unplanned Life  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game here.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show_ Drake & Josh_. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while._

_**A/N: **I wrote this chapter a while ago and have put off posting it because it is another Drake chapter and it was never my intention for this story to be so Drake-centric. However, it seems that Drake has shoved Josh out of the way and has taken residence inside my skull. For those of you waiting patiently for our wayward boys to meet again, it'll happen - I promise! It's just that real life has this annoying little habit of insinuating itself into my free time in all sorts of inconvenient ways._

* * *

Chapter 6: A Night to Remember

**POV: Drake, 24 years old**

Drake hadn't been able to sleep; the pains in his stomach had become unbearable. He had been suffering from stomach pains for weeks and they had been gradually getting worse; he thought it was just indigestion and had been eating Tums like candy. He felt like he needed to throw up, but couldn't. He stood at the bathroom sink, gripping the edge of the basin in a white-knuckle grip as he gazed at himself in the mirror. He was pale, his skin taking on a pasty pallor even in the yellow incandescent light. The spray of freckles across his cheeks stood in stark contrast.

He thought he was getting better since he had finally been able to keep food down without his stomach feeling like it was on fire. But now, it seemed like whatever it was that was ailing him had just been saving up for the Big Finish.

A cold sweat covered his body and the shivering that accompanied it was the reason why he was gripping the sink for dear life. Not to mention that the sink was the only thing preventing him from doubling over from the pain in his stomach.

He had managed to hide the severity of his illness from Jack, though the boy knew he was sick and wore an expression of worry that aged his young face in a way that cut Drake to the quick. Jack had not gone to bed until Drake had eaten his entire bowl of chicken noodle soup and drank a glass of ginger ale – that was what Drake gave Jack when he was sick, so Jack had prescribed the same for him.

Sickness bubbled up from his stomach before Drake could even react and he simply lowered his head and threw up in the sink, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that always welled. Spitting the last of it from his mouth, he dragged the back of his hand over his lips and opened his eyes.

Bright red blood coated the white ceramic sink.

Drake stared wildly at it, then looked at his reflection. Blood streaked across his cheek where he had wiped his mouth. _Oh god._

Heart pounding, Drake backed instinctively away. One step. Two. He bumped against the wall, knees weak, and reached a blind hand out to the towel rack. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he felt himself falling, falling. He clawed for the towel rack again, but his fingers found only air. He staggered a step and reached out again, gripping the shower curtain, the plastic rings breaking in quick succession under his weight, the sound like that of a deck of cards being expertly shuffled. He crashed to the floor, his ribs taking the brunt of the force as they slammed against the edge of the tub. He came to rest in a semi-upright position, wedged slightly between the tub and the toilet.

"Dad?" Jack asked in a timid voice as he approached the bathroom doorway, his voice still thick from sleep. He had been awakened by the noise. Then, after taking in the scene, "Daddy!" The little boy stood frozen in place, his gray eyes wide with terror.

Drake opened his eyes with effort, saw the fear in his son's face and knew that it matched his own. "Jack," he said weakly, trying to keep his voice calm. He swallowed hard; he was going to be sick again and he didn't want Jack to see it. "Go get Mrs. Delfino."

"Daddy…" Jack whispered, tears filling his eyes quickly and spilling down his cheeks as his face crumpled.

"Jack, listen to me," Drake said softly, closing his eyes and swallowing again. He looked back at the boy. "I need you to get Mrs. Delfino. Right now. Do you understand?"

The little boy nodded, his chin trembling. But he still hesitated, terror making it difficult for him to move his limbs.

There was a pause, an unspoken communication between them as they looked at each other. "I'll be alright," Drake reassured him.

Jack nodded again, then turned and ran back through the apartment. Drake heard the heavy sound of the deadbolts slide back and the door open, followed closely by the clink of the door chain as it stretched to its maximum length and prevented the door from opening completely.

Drake closed his eyes. _Damn._

"Daddy! The door won't open!" Jack screamed, panicked. "I can't reach it!" The terror and the tears were evident in his voice.

"It's okay," Drake muttered, knowing the boy couldn't hear him. "It's okay." His vision was starting to tunnel, the blackness closing in around the edges. He sank all the way down to the floor, resting his head on the cold tile. The last things he remembered before he lost consciousness were the sight of blood spraying across the base of the toilet as he threw up again and the sound of breaking glass.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

If asked later, five-year-old Jack Parker would remember three things about that night the most: the contrast of the blood against the white tile, the smell of the cologne worn by the burly EMT with the kind eyes, and the way his dad's arm flopped over the side of the stretcher and hung there loosely as he was wheeled out to the ambulance.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The first thing Drake realized when he opened his eyes was that he was alive. The second thing he realized was that he was thirsty. His eyelids felt scratchy against his eyes and his tongue had enough fur on it to qualify as a pet.

He felt a warm pressure on his wrist and his eyes sought its source. A middle-aged nurse with short blonde hair and square black glasses smiled warmly at him as she glanced at her watch, counting his pulse. "Good morning, Mr. Parker," she said cheerfully. "I'm so glad you've decided to join us today."

Drake blinked slowly, her words fighting their way through a fog and into his brain. "Water," he croaked, his voice rusty.

The nurse smiled again. "Just enough to wet your lips. We can't let you overdo it, okay?" She poured a cup of water from a plastic pitcher by the bed and tilted it against his lips. He opened his mouth for more, but she pulled it away, some of it dribbling down his chin.

He sucked at his tongue, trying to extract every last molecule of water. Then he looked up at her. "Where's Jack?" he asked, his voice stronger but still hoarse. He looked around the room, hoping to see the boy sleeping in the corner. He tried to sit up, but grimaced at the pain in his ribs and sunk back down into the bed.

Drake had hovered on the edge of consciousness for two days – a result of a combination of blood loss, electrolyte imbalance, and dehydration caused by a bleeding ulcer in his stomach. An over-consumption of antacids had reduced the amount of acid in his stomach to the point where the bacteria that lived in his stomach naturally started working against him, eating a whole in the lining of his stomach. Vomiting blood had just been the tipping point. He had also cracked three ribs when he collapsed in the bathroom.

The nurse – named Peggy, Drake could see now by her ID tag – smiled at the mention of Jack's name. "He's sleeping right now in an empty room down the hall. He wanted to sleep in here with you, but this being an intensive care unit and all…" She trailed off. "Poor thing; he was exhausted. He didn't want to go to sleep until you woke up. Put up a valiant fight, but finally gave up a couple hours ago. Should I wake him?"

Drake wanted nothing more than to see his son, to show him that he was okay, as promised. But he shook his head. "Let him sleep," he said.

Peggy nodded. "Sure thing. But as soon as he wakes up, I'll let him know." She smiled again. "He's a good boy, Mr. Parker. Quite the charmer. I'll bet he gets that from you," she said, winking.

Drake attempted a smile. "Call me Drake. 'Mr. Parker' makes me feel old."

She laughed obligingly. "You're not old! In fact, you're younger than my son. So I guess that makes me the old one here."

He looked her up and down, grinning slightly. "No way! You must be pulling my leg. And here I was just gonna ask you to share my jello with me later."

Peggy laughed out loud, her hazel eyes sparkling mirthfully. "See? I knew it. A real charmer; like father, like son." She leaned down and Drake could smell lavender and antibacterial soap. "But if I was twenty-five years younger…" she whispered and winked again.

Writing something in his chart, she said, "Now you just take it easy. 'Cause there's at least one person who's counting on you to get better."

"I know," Drake said softly. He watched her walk to the door. Right before she disappeared down the hall, he said, smiling, "The offer still stands, you know – you, me, a cup of lime jello, two sporks. If you change your mind."

He listened to her bright laughter fade down the hallway. Then he closed his eyes and slept.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Jack swung his feet absently as he sat in a chair watching his dad. Drake was sleeping, but Jack could tell he was just about to wake up. Jack was an expert on Drake's sleeping patterns; they had shared a bed for over a year and Jack would sometimes wake up and just watch his dad sleep.

Sometimes Drake talked in his sleep, but never loud enough for Jack to understand. And sometimes his eyes would move really fast behind his eyelids and Jack knew he was dreaming. Sometimes those dreams were bad ones – Jack remembered his dad crying in his sleep once. Jack had just touched his cheek and whispered, "Shhh. It's okay," the way his dad always did for him.

Drake opened his eyes. Jack smiled. "Hi, Dad."

Eyes flitting to the boy, Drake's lips curved into a genuine smile. "Hey," he said, voice scratchy. He cleared his throat and grimaced at the rawness. "How long have I been sleeping?"

"A long time. I already finished kindergarten," Jack said, giggling at the smirk Drake gave him.

"Very funny," Drake muttered, then pushed himself into a semi-seated position painfully, his cracked ribs screaming in protest at being moved. He was out of breath after the effort, the tight binding around his ribs making breathing even more difficult. After a moment, he looked at Jack, who was watching him in silence, worry creasing his brow. "I'm okay, Jack." The boy gave him a skeptical look. "_Really._"

Jack slid out of the chair and walked over to side of the bed. His eyes followed the tube from his dad's arm to the IV bag hanging from a stand next to the bed and back again. He pointed at the needle that was buried in Drake's vein, taped down by two strips of soft white tape. "Does that hurt?" he asked softly, looking up into Drake's eyes.

"Nah," Drake said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I can't even feel it."

"What's it for?"

Drake looked at the bag. The only word on it that he immediately recognized was "saline." He looked at Jack. "It's to keep me from getting dehydrated."

"What's that mean?" Jack asked curiously.

A satisfied smile curved Drake's lips. "You mean there's a word you don't know? I thought you were a Boy Genius," Drake teased.

Jack sighed. "Just tell me," he said impatiently, tilting his head to the side.

Drake laughed. "It's what happens when you don't drink enough water. You can get sick. So the nurse gave me this so I wouldn't get sick. It's like drinking water through my arm."

"Really?" Jack asked, amazed. He brushed his fingertips very lightly across the tube that ran across Drake's arm. Then he looked up at Drake and said matter-of-factly, "That's kinda weird."

Drake smiled again. "Yeah, well. So are you." He messed Jack's hair with his left hand. Dropping his arm heavily on the bed next to him, he rested his head against the pillows and yawned. His eyes had fallen half-closed when he felt small fingers grasp his. Rolling his head to the side, he saw Jack watching him, his wide gray eyes unblinking. He squeezed the boy's fingers in his own. "What's the matter?"

"I…" the boy began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was scared you would die." Tears threatened to spill down his cheeks.

_Shit._ Drake didn't know what to say. His throat tightened and he had to blink back tears of his own. His dark eyes studied the boy – and he _was_ only a boy, no matter how grown-up he tried and sometimes _had _to be. Jack's face resembled his own more and more every year – even the collection of freckles across his nose was the same. The kid's mop of brown hair was a shade darker than Drake's, but had the same reddish hue in the sun.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he finally said. "I didn't mean to."

"I know," Jack replied. He looked down at their hands, still entwined on the sheet. With his other hand, he started drawing invisible lines across the back of Drake's hand. "But when I couldn't reach the chain…" Drake could see the boy's face crumple.

"Hey," Drake said, squeezing Jack's hand again. "Look at me."

Jack sniffled then looked up, his eyes red.

"I'm fine, Jack. I'm a little sore and a little tired, but I'm gonna be okay." He paused, looking into Jack's eyes to make sure he was listening. Then he said, "Come around here," gesturing for Jack to come around to the other side of the bed, away from the IV tube and other equipment. He slid over to his left a few painful inches as Jack obediently walked around the foot of the bed. Folding back the covers, he patted the thin mattress. "Climb in."

Jack gave his dad a small smile before dutifully kicking off his shoes and climbing up on the bed, burrowing under the blankets. Drake wrapped his right arm around his son's small shoulders and held the boy against him, ignoring the pain in his ribs. "It's okay to be scared, you know," he murmured into Jack's hair. "I get scared too, sometimes."

Looking up at Drake, Jack asked, surprised, "Really?"

"Yup," Drake assured. "Grown-ups get scared, too." It felt strange referring to himself as a grown-up; he had never really thought about it before. Different eras of his life seemed to have just merged together – childhood had blended into adolescence. Adulthood had arrived suddenly one day, wrapped in a small blue blanket.

"What are you scared of?" Jack asked earnestly.

"Well, let's see," Drake said, pretending to give it a lot of thought. "I'm scared of your dirty socks. And your underwear. Oh yeah. I'm _really_ scared of your dirty underwear."

Jack laughed, his eyes squeezing shut like his dad's did when he laughed. "Daaad," he managed, trying to catch his breath. He turned on his left side and snuggled against Drake, the last of his giggles fading away as he rested his head on Drake's shoulder.

Drake sighed, Jack's soft hair tickling his nose. "You know what scares me the most?" he asked his son softly.

"What?" Jack asked quietly, rubbing his nose against Drake's shoulder.

"That I won't be a good dad," Drake answered, his fingers absently toying with Jack's hair.

Jack shifted closer, his arm snaking across Drake's chest in a hug. Drake suppressed a groan at the pain. "You're a good dad," Jack whispered, and Drake could feel the boy's warm breath against his neck, slow and even. Drake knew he had fallen asleep.

Tightening his arm around Jack, Drake closed his eyes, falling asleep in less than a minute.

* * *

_Please review. And a big THANK YOU to everyone who has so far. I try to reply, but if I forget, please know that I appreciate your kind words!_


	7. Hallmark Doesn't Make a Card for This

_**TITLE:** Scenes from an Unplanned Life  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game here.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show_ Drake & Josh_. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while._

* * *

Chapter 7: Hallmark Doesn't Make a Card for This

**POV: Josh/Drake, 24 years old**

All the bickering was giving Josh a headache.

"I'm _telling_ you, the light saber is _way_ better than the phaser. Without question," Rashid was saying, tapping the table vehemently with the tip of his right index finger, causing the ice in everyone's glasses to clink brightly. Apparently, Jamie's assertion that the _Star Trek_ weapons were far superior to those in _Star Wars_ had offended Rashid's delicate sensibilities. Rashid considered himself an expert on all weapons of the science-fiction variety and took it personally when someone contradicted him – especially Jamie, whom Rashid considered a mere amateur on the subject.

Jamie snorted derisively. "You wish. Captain Kirk could shoot Obi Wan Kenobi dead with his phaser before the old man even unhooked his light saber from his bathrobe." If truth be told, Jamie could care less about the argument, but he just liked to watch Rashid squirm.

"That…is…" Rashid spluttered. "I can't believe you just said that." He was silently shaking his head as he chewed the inside of his cheek in annoyance.

Jamie just smiled. "And I'll tell you another thing about your precious Jedi knights," he began, and Josh could tell he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

That made one of them. "Enough already," he muttered mournfully, rubbing his left temple with his fingertips. "Please. Just _shut up._"

"Then _you_ settle it," Rashid said, his black eyes focusing on Josh. "Go on. Tell this _idiot_ that there is no greater fighter in the entire history of science fiction than the Jedi." He nudged Josh. "Go on. _Tell_ him."

Josh sighed wearily. "Does it really matter?" He exchanged a look with Jamie, who was still grinning.

"Yes it matters!" Rashid said, slamming his palm against the table. A fork bounced to the floor. "It matters," he continued more quietly, "that our seemingly brilliant mathematician friend here has sadly proven himself to be such a moron in every other aspect of life."

Josh absorbed the words in silence, then turned his eyes towards Jamie. "The Jedi are the greatest fighters in the entire history of science fiction," he said in monotone. "And you're _both_ idiots," he added with more inflection.

"Yes, but _I'm_ a _vindicated_ idiot," Rashid said, holding up one finger in triumph.

"All hail the Über Dork," Jamie quipped from across the table. "Let us bask in the glow of his nerditude."

"Hello pot. Meet kettle," Rashid shot back acidly, his caramel-colored skin starting to redden.

Josh sensed another argument coming on. "Shut the fuck _up_," he said through his teeth. "Both of you."

His companions looked at him in stunned silence. They couldn't remember the last time, if ever, they had heard Josh curse. Sure, he got angry. But he would always steer away from the bad words by making up his own at the last second. Their personal favorite was "fudge nugget."

"Jeesh. What crawled up your butt and died?" Jamie asked, scanning Josh's face. Frankly, ever since they met up that morning, Josh had been copping an attitude.

Josh closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. "Nothing," he said quietly, looking at his friends. "I'm just in a bad mood." He turned his attention to the condensation sliding down the side of his glass of raspberry iced tea, catching a drop with the tip of his finger and drawing a pattern on the table with it.

"If you're still upset about the microcontroller," Rashid began. On their three-man team, he was the mechanical engineering student.

"No," Josh, the electrical-engineering-slash-computer-science student, said. "You were right about that." He shrugged. "Like I said, it's nothing important." _Except that six years ago today, my brother and best friend walked out and never looked back, leaving a hole in his family._ He hated that it still bothered him so much. Obviously, Drake wasn't bothered by it; why should _he_ be?

"I'm nervous," Jamie, physics student and mathematician extraordinaire, said suddenly, placing Josh and his bad mood on the back burner. He rubbed his palms together rapidly, like he was trying to warm his hands – a nervous habit both Josh and Rashid had learned to ignore. "I just wish it was over."

The three were competing in the Collegiate Robotics Challenge's Southern Regional. This year's host was the University of Florida and teams from colleges and universities around the south had converged on the city of Gainesville for the three-day event. The first heat was later that evening and the three Ph.D. students from Duke University's Pratt School of Engineering were currently ensconced at The Swamp – a local restaurant on the corner of University Avenue and 16th Street, across from campus – nursing iced teas in the late June humidity.

Josh positioned his chair in the shade of the table umbrella, slouching in it until his head rested along the back. He closed his eyes and listened to the bustling traffic on University Avenue and the snippets of conversation that passed by on the sidewalk. His head hurt and his heart ached and both, in some way, could be attributed to the memory that haunted him this time every year.

It was always the same one – waking up and finding him gone. Not just "in the shower" gone, but _gone_ gone – bureau hanging open, guitar missing, no note kind of gone. The kind of gone that had taken up residence inside Josh's chest and built a fortress there, protecting the empty feeling that accompanied the realization that Drake hadn't even cared enough to say goodbye.

Josh had known Drake was angry with their parents, but they were just being parents. They wanted what was best for him and they didn't happen to think that that was wandering the country without a plan at the age of eighteen. He wanted to see the world (at least the world outside the confines of San Diego) and play his music; they wanted him to learn a trade, what they called a "marketable skill," something that he could fall back on when the real-life strains of adulthood came knocking on his door.

But he had shown them all, hadn't he? He had had his precious last word, punctuated by a year of silence that had slid seamlessly into two, then into six. But he was the giant 700-pound gorilla in the room at every school break, every holiday, every birthday celebration or special occasion. Megan had even filled out a graduation announcement for him before realizing that she didn't know where to send it. Their mom had kept their room the same, as if the familiar arrangement of furniture and the collection of rock 'n roll posters would conjure him up out of thin air. If the rest of the house seemed empty, at least his room would still carry the specter of him.

Josh slept in the guest room when he went home to visit.

He didn't come up in conversation very much anymore. When Josh had big news, good or bad, he didn't automatically think about telling Drake first. But that had taken a while, his brain unaccustomed to a life without his brother in it – the person who had consciously risked ruining his reputation to plead with Josh to forgive him in front of the entire class, not caring that he was soaked to the skin and on the verge of tears.

_I need you _way _more than you need me_. Sure. Obviously.

"Hey, Josh," Rashid said softly. "You still with us?"

Josh opened his eyes, blinking in the late afternoon sunlight. He looked at his friend and tried to smile. "Yeah," he said, sitting up. "I kinda zoned out there. Sorry."

"You ready to go? I wanna make a couple last-minute adjustments to Sally before the competition starts," Jamie said. "Sally" was what he called their robot – after the girl he had an unrequited crush on in the fourth grade.

"Sally's perfect the way she is," Rashid said. "Don't mess with her."

"Besides," Josh began, returning his attention to the reason why they were in Florida in the first place. He picked up his glass and slurped out the last of his tea. Absently he watched as a city bus pulled to the curb three blocks away, a stream of backpack-toting undergraduates disembarking. "If we start changing things last minute, we run the risk of –"

He stopped suddenly, his fingers gripping his glass reflexively. _It couldn't be._ The cluster of people who had gotten off the bus had dispersed, most of them heading towards campus. One person remained at the bus stop, his back to Josh. There was something familiar about the outline of the body, the way the clothes fit.

"Drake," he whispered, setting his glass down with a trembling hand, ignoring the stares of his friends who were thinking he had lost his mind. Josh stood up, his chair scraping across the deck, and gripped the edge of the table, his vision pulsing with the pounding of his heart.

"Drake!" he screamed, even though logic told him that it couldn't be him. He used to see Drake everywhere, all the time. And every time, it hadn't been him. _You're seeing what you want to see._

But he couldn't help himself. No matter how much time had passed, a glimmer of hope still stubbornly survived. "Drake!" he yelled again, pushing past Jamie's chair and up against the white picket fence that enclosed the outside dining area – gripped the wood so tightly, his knuckles turned white. But the sound was carried away by the high-pitched wail of a fire truck's siren.

When the truck passed, he had disappeared from view.

_It wasn't him. It _wasn't. His brain forced him to take a breath, then another.

"Who's Drake?" Jamie asked from behind him. He and Rashid were still sitting at the table, watching Josh closely.

Josh's fingers flexed convulsively around the fence posts; he didn't know how to answer that anymore. Six years ago, the answer would have been simple – _my brother, my best friend, the person who knows me better than anyone._ Now, all Josh knew about Drake was that he was gone. A sudden sadness gripped him and it took him a moment to find his voice. When he finally did, he simply said, "Just someone I used to know."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Drake heaved a heavy sigh as he punched his employee code into the time clock, his fingers automatically reaching for the knot in his tie and pulling it loose. The top button of his shirt followed closely behind.

It was finally the end of a very long day. His lower back ached and there was a blister forming along the back of his right heel where his new work shoes had been rubbing. He shuffled to the employee locker room and sagged onto a bench, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, his head drooping down.

"Hey, man. What're you still doing here?" Mike's voice.

Drake spoke to his shoes. "Mid-shift was short-staffed, so I volunteered to stay."

"And George let you?" George Silverman supervised the hotel wait staff. He ruled his tiny kingdom with an iron fist, priding himself on doing his part to increase the hotel's profit margin – and thus his salary – by banning overtime of any kind.

Smirking, Drake looked over at Mike, who was leaning up against his locker, arms crossed over his chest. Mike worked in building maintenance and loved to tell stories about all the strange things he would find clogging up toilets, sinks, and bathtubs. He was just starting his shift and was still in his street clothes. "George doesn't know yet," Drake said. "He was off today. Valerie authorized it." Valerie Montoya supervised the kitchen staff and, at least in terms of position, equaled George. In all other areas – competence and personality, most notably – she was far superior.

Mike laughed. "George is gonna have a shit fit."

"Oh well. I'm gettin' paid," Drake said, smiling. He pulled off his shoes and stood up, spinning the combination lock on his locker door and tugging it open.

"I hear ya," Mike said, opening his own locker.

The two dressed in silence – Drake into his street clothes, Mike into his uniform. "How's the kid?" Mike asked into his locker as he buttoned his shirt.

Drake smiled, as he always did when someone asked about Jack. "He's good. His birthday's next week."

"Yeah? How old's he gonna be?" Mike asked, closing his locker and setting his tool belt on the bench with a loud _thump._

"Five," Drake said. He couldn't believe it himself.

"No way."

"That's why I volunteered to work a double. I wanna do something special for his birthday." He had already bought two tickets to see the Butterfly Rainforest at the Florida Museum of Natural History, but he was planning something more. He just hadn't decided on what yet.

A high-pitched chirping emanated from Drake's locker – his cell phone. It was a prepaid phone without a lot of bells and whistles – bells and whistles cost money he couldn't spare – but it made and received calls and that, he discovered, was all he really needed. He reached in and pulled it out, flipping it open. "Hello?" he asked, pressing it to his ear.

"Hi, Drake. It's Jen. I just wanted to let you know that we're at Library West. So don't come looking for us at the coffee shop." Jen worked the morning shift at the hotel's reception desk.

When Mrs. Delfino dropped Jack off at the hotel that morning at the end of Drake's regular shift – as was her routine – Drake hadn't yet volunteered to work the next shift. When word got out that servers were needed to help with a huge luncheon for the Pfizer conference taking place at the hotel, Drake had jumped at the chance. After all, time and half was time and a half. Jen had recognized his dilemma and had come to his rescue. Besides, she didn't have any classes and she adored Jack.

"Library West, huh?" Drake asked suspiciously.

"I have some research to do for a paper due next week," she answered a bit sheepishly.

"Uh-huh." Drake was sure Jack had conned her into it. The kid loved books. He would walk up and down the aisles of libraries and bookstores, trailing his fingers along the spines, mesmerized.

"I really do have a paper," she asserted. "But I've already done the research for it." She laughed, knowing Drake knew the real reason for their library visit.

"Let me talk to Jack," Drake said, shaking his head.

"Hi, Dad," Jack said cheerfully through the phone.

"I see you talked Jen into taking you to the library," Drake replied, smiling.

"It was her idea," Jack insisted and Drake heard Jen laugh in the background.

"I'm sure."

"We're gonna go to the map room!" Jack said excitedly.

"Stay there so I know where to find you, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll be there as soon as I can. I'm leaving work now."

"Okay, Dad," Jack said impatiently, and Drake could tell that the boy was wishing he would stop talking so he and Jen could go inside.

"Have fun. Be good. I'll see you in a little while."

"Bye!" Jack said and ended the call before Drake could even respond. He chuckled to himself as he flipped his phone closed and slipped it into his jeans pocket.

Twenty minutes later, Drake was sitting in the back of a city bus that would take him down University Avenue and drop him off a block from the library. Fatigue tugged at him and he leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes.

The significance of the day was finally starting to sink in. He had recognized the date immediately when he had opened the refrigerator that morning to get the milk – Jack had carefully drawn an 'X' through the previous day on the magnetic calendar, leaving the current date prominently displayed. It had niggled in the back of his mind for the entire morning, but he had been able to focus on other things. Then work had provided enough distraction to keep the unwanted thoughts at bay. But now, his mind was too tired to put up much resistance and the thoughts he'd been avoiding all day slithered into his consciousness.

Six years ago, he left his life in San Diego and never looked back.

He tried not to think about it at all and when he did, it was never for long. What was the use in dwelling on it? He couldn't change it. He couldn't turn back the clock and do things differently.

Not that he wanted his life to be different. Sure, he wasn't the famous singer he had wanted to be when he was a kid. And when he had visualized his future back in San Diego, being a waiter at a posh hotel – schlepping iced tea and decaffeinated coffee to business bigwigs – had never been on his list of possibilities. But it paid the bills. And he was good at it.

And he still had his music, albeit not in the way he had envisioned. But that was okay; he hadn't envisioned Jack either and he wouldn't change the fact of _his_ existence for all the million-dollar recording contracts on the planet.

He opened his eyes; the bus was full of students making their way to evening classes and study sessions. Maybe they were even going home. Glancing out the window, he saw that he was almost to his stop. He reached up to pull the cord to signal the bus driver to stop, but someone beat him to it.

The bus pulled up next to the curb and Drake stood wearily as the students pushed towards the exits, hanging back until the mass exodus was over. Following the last student out the back door, he stepped down onto the sidewalk. The crowd of students dispersed in all directions; Drake stopped for a moment and looked around, getting his bearings as he suppressed a yawn.

Evening was fast approaching, although you couldn't tell by the temperature. June in Gainesville was steamy nearly 24 hours a day and it was only going to get worse over the next three months. He looked to his right; he could see the library through the trees and started walking towards it, turning his head at what sounded like someone calling his name. His eyes scanned the street around him quickly, but when he didn't see anyone he recognized, he turned back towards the library. The loud blare of a siren cut the air as a huge fire truck sped past, lights flashing.

By the time the siren faded away, he had forgotten all about it.

* * *

_Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story so far. The end is in sight (at least in my head!), so stay tuned!_

_Please review. It is very much appreciated._


	8. Things Left Unsaid

_**TITLE:** Scenes from an Unplanned Life  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game here.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show_ Drake & Josh_. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while._

_**A/N:** More angst. I can't help it._

_

* * *

_Chapter 8: Things Left Unsaid

**POV: Drake/Josh, 25 years old**

"_As far as I'm concerned, I don't have a brother."_

Drake was headed south on US 101, out of San Jose, escaping the disastrous meeting with Josh that had ended with those words. Even the sound of the wind blowing through the open windows of the Buick couldn't drown them out. He didn't know what he had expected, but what he _hadn't_ expected was the note of stone-cold anger in his brother's voice or the knife-edge of still-fresh pain in his eyes.

_Drake's heart was pounding when Josh opened the door. The two men – they were both several years removed from the boys they had once been – stared at each other across a threshold that stretched across seven years._

"_You're not dead," Josh finally said, the words clipped, matter-of-fact. _

_During the 416 mile drive from San Diego, Drake had imagined a lot of things that Josh might say to him; that wasn't one of them. "Disappointed?" he asked and hoped Josh wouldn't say 'yes'._

_Josh didn't say anything at all. He stood in the doorway, right hand on the door jamb, left hand on the inside door knob, and just stared at Drake, his brown eyes unreadable._

The tires chewed up the miles between them, his right foot pressing the accelerator as the needle inched towards 80 miles per hour. He looked at the odometer – he had only gone twelve miles, but he and Josh were a million miles apart. He had gone there to talk, to try to explain the unexplainable, to just _see_ him. He had only managed to accomplish the last one.

_Drake looked at his brother – his black hair was longer than the last time Drake saw him, curling above his ears and licking the back of his collar. His face was leaner, more angular, the cheekbones pushing against the taut, tanned skin of his face. He looked older, but in more than just a years-since-birth sort of way – it was the shadows in his once-bright eyes, the hard set of the lips that used to curl so easily into a smile. "Can I come in?" Drake asked tentatively._

_Josh hesitated, his eyes flicking down the hall in both directions. He looked back at Drake, chewing at the inside of his bottom lip. Then he sighed and stepped back, turning without a word and walking into his apartment, leaving the door open._

_Drake took that as an unspoken, albeit reluctant, invitation and followed him in, closing the door behind him. He stood in front of the door and shoved his hands in his pockets. His eyes followed Josh, who was across the room, his back still turned._

"_Josh, I…" Drake began, not knowing what to say, but not being able to stand the silence._

"_Don't," Josh cut in, turning around, the word spoken sharply. The sudden storm in his eyes belied the calm in his voice. "Don't say it. Don't say anything; just listen." He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring, as the words piled up inside his head. For seven years he had formulated the things he would say when and if this moment ever arrived. Each year, the words had gotten harsher, angrier. But now, sadness tempered his words. "You can't come back after all this time and think that an 'I'm sorry' can fix everything. This isn't high school, Drake. This is adulthood. Welcome to it." _

_The anger that suddenly flashed in Drake's dark eyes surprised him. "You don't know anything about my life," Drake said. The words were measured, spoken softly through lips that barely moved._

"_No, I don't, do I?" Josh countered, the look in his eyes conveying, _And whose fault is that?_ "But I know _you_, though. You were always like Peter Pan – refusing to grow up." He gave Drake an appraising look, like he was searching for physical evidence to support that assertion. Drake's hair was shorter; it no longer flopped into his eyes in that way girls had always found so irresistible. He had circles under his eyes that made them look almost hollow. He looked tired, maybe. But he hadn't changed much._

"_So, what? You think my life's been one big party? No family, no responsibilities?" Drake asked, and he felt his temper rising, fought to keep it under control._

_Josh could feel the heat warming his face. "You've got the 'no family' part right," he said bitterly._

"_Wrong," Drake said, biting back what he really wanted to say as his mind flashed on Jack. He didn't want to do this. Not yet. He had purposely left the boy back in San Diego so he could confront Josh alone._

"_Excuse me? I seem to recall the rest of us still being there after your little disappearing act." Josh's voice cracked on the last two words and he hated himself for it._

_Drake's anger ebbed as quickly as it rose. "I know."_

His body was tense, the muscles of his neck and shoulders tight with anger and frustration. When he lifted a hand to adjust the sunglasses that had slipped down his nose in the California heat, he felt the tell-tale tingling of restored circulation in his fingers. He hadn't realized he had been gripping the wheel so tightly.

His phone vibrated against his thigh and he pulled it out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear. "Hello?" he asked wearily, not in the mood to talk.

"I hope this isn't a bad time." Audrey's voice. "But Jack really wants to talk to you."

Drake perked up at the mention of his son's name. "It's alright. Put him on."

"Dad?" Jack's voice was soft and Drake could barely hear him.

"Hey, bud," Drake said, trying to sound cheerful. He pushed the buttons on the door, the open windows slowly closing, blocking out the sound of the wind and the surrounding vehicles. "Is something wrong?"

"When are you coming back?" A trace of anxiety edged Jack's voice.

"Soon," Drake responded reassuringly. "I'm on my way now. I'll be there just a soon as I can." He paused, giving Jack a moment to process his words. "Okay?"

"Okay," Jack said softly. "But hurry up. I miss you."

"I miss you, too," Drake managed to reply, swallowing down the sudden lump in his throat.

He was just about hang up when he heard his mom's voice. "Drake, you still there?" she asked quietly, and he could hear the concern in her voice.

"Yeah." He knew what she was going to ask him.

"How'd it go with your brother?"

Drake stared through the windshield at the road in front of him, Josh's last words still fresh in his memory. "Drake?" Audrey asked after Drake didn't respond.

"As far as he's concerned, he doesn't have a brother." Hearing the words out loud in his own voice didn't lessen the sting.

"Oh, no," she said and Drake could hear the tears in her voice. "Oh, honey." After a beat, she said, "It's been especially hard for him, you know."

"Yeah," Drake said quickly. He didn't want to talk about it. "Look," he continued, "I gotta go, okay? I'm driving. I'll see you when I get back." And he closed the phone before she could say anything.

The trembling started then, deep inside his chest. It spread slowly outwards to his limbs and he ground his teeth against it, gripping the wheel again. He pressed the accelerator.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Josh was standing on his balcony, staring out towards the panoramic view of the shopping plaza across the street, not really seeing it at all. He felt like crying and it angered him - why should he even care anymore?

'Shocked' was not a strong enough word to describe how he felt upon seeing Drake standing on the other side of his door, looking almost like the last seven years had never happened. Of all the things Josh had thought of to say to Drake, what he had actually said – "You're not dead" – hadn't been one of them. But the words had tumbled from his lips before he could stop them and he realized he had finally put a voice to his deepest fear.

But then the anger had set in and the hurt that he had spent so long denying came rushing to the surface – both manifesting themselves into words that were meant to wound. Sure, Drake was sorry. He was always sorry. But Josh didn't want sorry. He wanted Drake to suffer, to hurt like he did.

He never once stopped to think that maybe Drake _was_ hurting. That he had been the whole time.

Josh could only see his own pain.

"_You didn't even say goodbye," Josh said softly. And there it was – the one thing that he had never been quite able to forget._

"_I couldn't," Drake replied._

"_Why not?"_

"_Because you would've talked me out of it," Drake said. "And I _had_ to go." He paused, studying Josh's face. "I _had_ to. Can't you understand that?"_

"_Yeah, I can understand that. I've _always_ understood that." He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "It's the rest I don't get."_

_Drake sighed, closed his eyes for a moment. "Josh, I…" he said again, opening his eyes wearily. There was so much that needed to be said and he wished he had the right words to take that look from Josh's eyes. But he didn't. He finally settled on, "I wanted my own life, so I took it." _

"_So it was as easy as that, was it?" Josh asked sharply, anger darkening his eyes._

"_No, Josh, it wasn't. It wasn't easy at all." Drake sighed, whispered, "You have no idea." The second the words left his mouth, he knew they were the wrong ones._

"I_ have no idea? _I_ have no idea? _I'm_ the one who stayed, Drake, remember? _I'm_ the one that was left standing in the ruins. _I'm_ the one," he repeated, stabbing himself in the chest with the tip of his finger, "that had to pick up the pieces and watch Mom and Dad sink under the weight of their guilt. _I'm_ the one that had to hear Megan cry even though she tried to hide it. _Megan_ cried, Drake. For _you. _So did Mom. So did Dad." He took a breath. "So did I," he said hoarsely, lips trembling. He saw Drake open his mouth to speak and held up his hand to stop him. "So don't tell __me__ it wasn't easy. I _know_ it wasn't." His breathing was labored and the sound of his pounding heart was loud in his ears. "You think leaving was hard, Drake? Try getting left." _

_A sudden, bitter bark of laughter bubbled up from Drake's throat. "I'm an asshole," he said harshly. "I get it." He chose his next words carefully. "But if you think that my life's been all sunshine and rainbows, you're wrong."_

"_Yeah? Well, pardon me if I don't give a shit," Josh spat back._

He kept telling himself over the years that he didn't need Drake in his life. And hadn't he proven that? He had a Ph.D. in electrical engineering and a good paying job in the heart of Silicon Valley. He had a nice apartment and a nice car. He had friends. He even had a woman friend who couldn't yet be labeled "girlfriend", but he was hoping.

He had a good life that seemed complete enough every other day. So why did it feel like the last piece of the puzzle had finally fallen into place the second he opened his door and saw Drake standing there?

He _wanted_ to be angry, dammit. Didn't he deserve that? And he had to admit that he had gotten just a little satisfaction out of seeing the look in Drake's eyes when he told him that he didn't have a brother. But that had drained away the instant the door had closed behind Drake's retreating figure.

It wasn't true, of course. He had never stopped thinking of Drake as his brother. That's why it had hurt so much, after all. They had been nearly inseparable since their parents had gotten married, after the initial adjustment period. Sure, there had been the time that Josh told Drake he was done with him. But look how long that had lasted. Besides, that separation had been on Josh's terms and they hadn't _actually_ been separated. They still shared a room. They still saw each other at school, at home. Josh still _knew _where Drake was.

That was the hardest part of the last seven years, he decided – the not knowing.

He heard his phone ringing from inside his apartment and he turned his head towards the sound. He didn't want to talk to anyone; he decided to let the machine pick up.

"Josh, it's Dad." Walter's voice resonated from the machine. "If you're there, please pick up. Your mom just spoke with Drake. She said –"

"Dad, I'm here," Josh said wearily, sinking onto the couch.

"Son," Walter said softly. "What happened?"

Josh sighed, his breath shaky, and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Nothing," he answered.

"Josh."

"Look, Dad. I don't want to talk about it. Suffice it to say, it wasn't good." Then something suddenly occurred to him – something so obvious, he couldn't believe he'd missed it. "Wait," he said, sitting up. "How long has he been back?"

Walter paused a beat before answering, then said evenly, "He showed up at the house two nights ago. Late."

"Why didn't you call me?" He felt himself getting angry again, this time with his parents. "I had a right to know."

"He asked us not to, Josh." Walter sounded unfazed by Josh's righteous anger.

"Since when does he have the right to ask for anything?" Josh asked before he could stop himself, instantly regretting the words.

"He's my son," Walter said and Josh closed his eyes at the sadness in his father's voice. It was all too easy to forget that others had been hurt, too. Walter had felt Drake's absence as sharply as Josh had; the lack of a blood tie hadn't made the slightest difference at all to either of them.

"I know," Josh said hoarsely. "It's just…" But he couldn't finish the thought.

"I know how much he hurt you, Josh," Walter said softly. "But he's trying to make amends." He took in a shaky breath, let it out slowly. "He wants to put things right. For Jack."

"Jack?" Josh asked, confused.

There was silence at the other end. Then, "He didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?" Josh asked, suddenly feeling like the sand was shifting beneath his feet.

"Josh," Walter said softly. "Jack is Drake's son."

Josh suddenly couldn't breathe.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Drake had barely gone forty miles when the gas light came on, mocking him in amber brightness from the dash and pulling him back into focus.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, cursing himself for his carelessness. In his haste to leave San Jose, he hadn't stopped for gas like he had planned. His preoccupied mind hadn't noticed the needle hovering on the "E", doing its best to clue him in that he had forgotten something. Now, the car could stall at any second. He scanned the roadsides with his weary eyes, squinting through the heat that made the thick air hazy.

His shoulders sagged in noticeable relief when he saw an Arco station less than a mile ahead on his right and when he pulled up to a pump, he let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Pushing open the door, he stood up, stretching, the smell of gasoline sharp in his nose.

The bell over the door jingled cheerfully when he went inside to prepay, the air conditioning a welcome relief from the oppressive heat. The man behind the counter looked up, an expression of slight surprise on his face, like he hadn't had a customer in ages and hadn't been expecting one. Drake made eye contact and gave him a slight nod as he pulled out his wallet. "Give me twenty on…" He craned his neck to read the pump number through the grimy window covered in advertisements. "…two."

The man didn't make a sound, just grasped the bill that Drake held out to him between stubby fingers that were topped off with nails bitten down to the quick, punching a few buttons on an ancient computer and then turning away. Drake lingered for a moment, enjoying the air conditioning, then pushed open the door and walked to the car.

He leaned wearily against the car, squeezing the nozzle handle with his right hand, the old fashioned numbers on the pump clicking as they climbed towards twenty. His head throbbed behind his eyes and exhaustion was creeping up along his spine, weighing him down.

There was a long trip ahead, made longer by the fresh realization that he had hurt the people he loved the most – one apparently beyond repair. He had been fairly successful in tucking it away for the last seven years, pretending like it didn't happen. It had been almost easy, since he hadn't had to look them in the eye and see their pain.

But then reality came rushing to the forefront in the form of a seemingly innocuous kindergarten project. Jack came home one day with an assignment to make a poster of his family tree using pictures of his family. He was supposed to start with his grandparents and make his way down to himself. Drake had been speechless to the point that Jack asked him if he was okay. That was when it had finally hit him that he needed to try to make things right.

He told himself that he was doing it for Jack. But if he was honest with himself, Drake was just using his son as an excuse to finally do what he should have done years ago – own up to his mistakes.

Which was something he had never been very good at.

Placing the nozzle back in its slot, Drake screwed the gas cap on and flipped the cover closed with a note of finality. Just as he was about to slide into the driver's seat, his phone buzzed in his pocket. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and looked at the number – it was a number he didn't recognize with a 408 area code. He received a lot of calls from people looking for someone named Mark – apparently Mark had had the number before Drake did.

Flipping it open, he pressed it to his ear. "If you're looking for Mark –" he began, but the caller's voice stopped him cold.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Drake felt his knees start to give out and he sank into the driver's seat. "Josh," he whispered, almost sobbing the word.

"Dad had to tell me," Josh said softly.

It took a moment for Drake to find his voice, swallowing past constricted vocal cords. "I wanted you to be able to say whatever you needed to say," he finally said, looking down at his free hand. It was trembling and he pressed it palm-down against his thigh to steady it.

There was a long silence and Drake heard Josh sigh. He could picture him running his hand through his hair, then rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was frustrated. The image almost made him smile. He took it as a good sign that Josh hadn't hung up yet and didn't want to risk it by saying the wrong thing. So he just waited.

"Where are you?" Josh finally asked.

Drake looked through the windshield. "At a gas station off 101. What town, I don't know."

There was another brief pause, then a sigh. "Can…" Josh began and Drake heard him exhale. "Can we meet somewhere?"

Drake closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. "I could come back to your place," he offered, trying not to sound too eager.

"No," Josh replied, a little too quickly, his voice harsher than he intended. "Someplace else," he continued, his voice softer. "Neutral ground."

"Sure," Drake said, almost whispering. "Anywhere you want."

"There's a restaurant…" Josh began, and described a small restaurant whose location Drake burned into his memory.

When they hung up, Drake flipped the phone closed and let it slip from his fingers onto his lap. He gripped the wheel on either side of his head tightly in his hands and finally let himself do what he had promised himself he wouldn't.

He cried.

* * *

_I told you they'd meet again! More to come, so please stay tuned._

_Please review. Thank you. (And THANKS to everyone who has so far!)_


	9. Interruptus

_**TITLE:** Scenes from an Unplanned Life  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game here.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show_ Drake & Josh_. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while._

_**A/N: **This was a short chapter I wrote a long time ago and had never posted. I wasn't going to, but I decided I needed to break up the endless flow of angst a little bit. It's a little naughty (which I don't write too often, so please keep that in mind!), but not too explicit. I think there are only one or two bad words. :o)_

* * *

Chapter 9: Interruptus

**POV: Drake, 23 years old**

He was hard and she was soft in all the right places. Her name was Agnes – that was one of the things that had caught his attention in the first place. It wasn't a name he heard everyday. She was named after her great-grandmother, she had told him.

She moaned into his mouth and slid her knee between his legs, eliciting a groan from him. He broke the kiss, grinding his teeth together, trying to hold back. He didn't want to rush it and he was already close. They still had their clothes on, for Christ's sake.

It had been a while and he was a little out of practice.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her breath warm against his neck, each breath pushing her breasts against his chest.

"Nothing," he said hoarsely. He looked at her – red hair the color of new pennies framed a heart-shaped face with hazel eyes and soft lips that were now a little swollen. God, he wanted her.

She grinned lasciviously. "Then let's get back to business," she said, her fingers finding his belt. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, resting his weight against his hands that were propped against the door on either side of her head.

He barely heard the zipper over the pounding of his heart inside his skull, but his eyes flew open at her touch. The word "Jesus" was carried out of his mouth on a sharp expulsion of breath.

"You like that, don't you?" Her voice was low and husky.

Drake couldn't respond.

She pushed him back towards the bed and he fell onto it when the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress. He laid there looking up at her, watching as she pushed her jeans down over her hips in what seemed like slow motion, revealing barely there lavender panties. Her blouse followed, revealing a matching bra.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat as she positioned herself over him, slithering up his body. She pressed her lips to his ear. "Ready for the ride of your life?" she asked, her breath moist against his ear. She ground her pelvis against his and he gritted his teeth again. If they didn't hurry it up, the ride would be over before it began.

"Agnes –" he managed.

"Shhh," she purred against his neck. "No talking."

He couldn't even if he tried, so when she asked him where the condoms were, he just pointed in the direction of the nightstand. She retrieved the prophylactic and placed it between her teeth. Turning her attention to his jeans, she tugged them and his boxers down over his hips, smiling at his obvious arousal.

Gripping handfuls of blanket in his fists, he had the thought that he had never seen anything sexier in his life than this woman staring down at him with just the corner of a condom wrapper between her perfect teeth. His eyes rolled back as she tore open the wrapper.

"Dad?"

Drake's eyes shot open and he jerked his head up, propping himself up on his elbows. He heard the doorknob being jiggled. Thank god he thought to lock the door. Agnes hovered over him, frozen.

"Dad! Open the door!" Jack's small voice sounded urgent.

Drake placed his hands on Agnes' hips, guiding her off him as he sat up. Even in the dim light of the single lamp burning on the dresser, he could see the annoyance on her face. "I thought you said he wouldn't be here!" she hissed under her breath, glaring at him.

"He's not supposed to be," Drake whispered, sliding off the bed and tucking himself carefully back into his jeans. He had dropped the boy off at Mrs. Delfino's earlier that evening. The older woman had just smiled and pointedly said, "Be careful," as she rested her hand meaningfully on Jack's head.

"Da-ad!"

"Hold that thought," he said hastily, pointing at her as he walked to the door. Turning the lock on the knob, he opened the door, blocking the opening with his body so the boy wouldn't come charging in. He stepped into the hallway, forcing the kid back a step, closing the door behind him. "Jack, why aren't you upstairs with Mrs. Delfino?" he asked calmly.

"I don't feel good," he said.

"What's the matter?" he asked the boy.

"My throat hurts," said Jack.

Drake sighed. "Come on," he said, turning to walk down the hall towards the bathroom, Jack following closely behind. He turned on the light, reached into the drawer to the right of the sink for the penlight he kept there, and knelt in front of the boy. "Stick out your tongue," he commanded.

Jack complied, even adding a helpful, "Ahhhhh."

Shining the light into Jack's mouth, Drake inspected the back of his throat. It looked a little red, but not inflamed. He clicked the light off. "Okay."

The boy closed his mouth and looked at his dad, waiting.

"Go get the salt," Drake said.

Jack knew what that meant and he made a face. "But, Dad…" he protested.

"Jack, if you argue, it'll only make your throat worse," Drake replied, surprised at his own logic.

Jack closed his mouth and Drake could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, processing what Drake had just said. Silently, Jack exited the bathroom and disappeared from sight in the direction of the kitchen. Drake stood, filled the bathroom cup a third full with warm water and waited for him to return. He did so after a moment, eyes downcast, holding the salt shaker in his left hand. He held it out to his dad.

Drake shook a small quantity of salt into the cup and swirled it around. He held the cup out to Jack. "You know what to do," he said.

The boy took the cup in both hands and looked beseechingly up at Drake. "My throat doesn't really hurt _that_ bad," he explained.

"Jack."

Heaving a defeated sigh, Jack tilted the cup to his lips, then tilted his head back, gargling. Drake counted to thirty in his head, then said, "Spit."

Jack walked over to the sink and stood on his tiptoes to spit the salt water out. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grimaced. "Yuck," he said.

"You'll thank me later," Drake said dryly. "Let's go." He started to walk out the door.

"Where we goin'?" Jack asked.

"_You're_ going back to Mrs. Delfino's," Drake answered as he walked down the hall, thinking Jack was behind him.

"Why can't I just stay here?" asked the boy, who had stopped in the hallway outside the bathroom door. He had his arms crossed over his chest.

Drake closed his eyes before turning around. _Crap._ "Because," he began, then stopped. He tilted his head to the side and crossed his arms, too. "Does Mrs. Delfino even know you're here?"

Jack's defiance wilted a little. He lowered his head. "No," he said sheepishly. "She fell asleep."

"How'd you even know I was home?"

"I didn't. But when I opened the door, I saw your jacket on the floor. The one you were wearing earlier." He looked up at Drake out of the corner of his eye. "I'm sorry I woke you up," he said.

Drake stifled a smile. "It's alright," he said. "I wasn't sleeping." He thought about Agnes and her lavender panties. She was probably pissed.

"I better go give Mrs. Delfino her keys back, huh?" Jack asked suddenly, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a set of keys.

"Jack," Drake said, exasperated. He hadn't even thought to ask Jack how he'd gotten in. Now he knew. He shook his head and took the keys. "Come on."

Five minutes later, Drake opened the door to his bedroom, an apologetic expression on his face. "Sorry." He was prepared to duck in case she had a projectile aimed at his head. But she was simply sitting on his bed, her back against the wall, legs curled under her, skimming an old issue of _Rolling Stone._

"Everything okay?" she asked calmly, not looking up. He thought her tone of voice was a little suspicious, but she hadn't gotten dressed and he took that as a good sign.

"Yeah," he said. He was getting aroused again, just looking at her. "He's back upstairs."

"Good," she said, flipping another page of the magazine nonchalantly. Then she suddenly tossed the magazine to the floor and uncurled her legs, patting the bed beside her. A salacious grin adorned her lips as she focused her feral gaze on him. "C'mere."

Drake grinned, peeling off his shirt and tossing it carelessly aside. Kicking off his shoes, he crawled onto the bed, hovering over her as he kissed her. He moaned involuntarily as her fingers snaked through his hair and she pressed against his mouth, increasing the heat.

His hand found her breast and he brushed his thumb across it, smiling at the physical response he elicited. Her fingers were on his fly, then through it as she pushed his jeans down over his hips and shifted onto her back beneath him. He lowered his lips to her neck and kissed across her collarbone as he pushed the strap of her bra off her shoulder. She arched beneath him and drew up one knee, pressing her pelvis against his, causing Drake to groan into her shoulder.

There was an insistent knock on the front door, muted though it was by the closed bedroom door. Drake froze, holding his breath.

"You've got to be kidding me," Agnes muttered under her breath.

"Shhh," he whispered. "Maybe they'll go away."

Another knock, louder this time, followed by a faint, "Dad?"

"For Christ's sake, what is it now?" she asked, sitting up and yanking her bra strap roughly back onto her shoulder.

"Be right back," he said wearily, standing up and pulling up his jeans. He picked up the first shirt he saw and pulled it over his head as he walked to the door.

"Whatever," he heard her say as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

Padding down the hall and across the living room, he slid back the deadbolts and opened the door. Mrs. Delfino stood there, holding Jack's hand. She had an apologetic look on her face. "I'm sorry to disturb you, honey," she said softly, "but Jack isn't feeling well. He's been complaining about a stomachache all night." She saw Drake's expression shift to Jack. "He didn't tell you, did he?"

Drake shook his head, looking back at her. "He just said his throat hurt."

She smiled sympathetically. "Well, he just threw up. I don't mind keeping him, you know that. But he really wants to go home. I should've called first," she added apologetically.

"It's fine," he said, kneeling down in front of his son. Jack looked back at him, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"Hey, don't sweat it. You couldn't help it," Drake said softly, giving the boy a small smile. "Why don't you let Mrs. Delfino take you to your room and I'll be there in a minute. Okay?"

Jack just nodded mutely. Drake stood and stepped aside to let them pass, running his fingers through the kid's hair as he passed and exchanging a look with Mrs. Delfino. "I'm sorry," she mouthed to him as she passed, gesturing with her dark eyes in the direction of the master bedroom. Drake just waved her off, following them to the back of the apartment.

When he entered his bedroom, he encountered an angry, half-naked woman. "What life-threatening emergency couldn't wait this time?" she spat at him before he could even speak.

A flash of anger shot through him. "What the hell's your problem? You knew I had a kid." She had seemed so sweet; what happened?

She looked at him angrily. "I _thought_ he'd be gone. I _thought_ you took care of it. Jesus Christ, can't you control your own kid?"

"He's not feeling well. What do you want me to do?" He felt himself losing his temper and he took a deep breath to calm his anger.

"Tell the babysitter to take care of it. Or tell him the truth. Tell him that Daddy wants to get laid and to stay out!" She actually seemed to snarl.

A sudden calm came over Drake and he stared at her in silence for a moment. "Or," he began, his voice low and even, "instead of telling _him_ to stay out," he continued, bending to pick up her clothes from the floor, "I could tell _you_ to get out," he finished, tossing her clothes at her.

She looked at him, her mouth hanging open slightly, her expression a cross between shock and indignation. "Excuse me?" She apparently was unaccustomed to being tossed aside.

"You heard me," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I can't _believe_ you just said that to me." Her eyes flashed angrily as she grabbed at her clothes.

"Well, believe it." He met her glare with one of his own. If she thought he was going to blow off his own kid for a quick roll with her, she had another thing coming. He pointed in the general direction of Jack's room. "_He_ lives here. _You_ don't."

Finally, she stood up and got dressed, her movements rushed and choppy. She glared at him as she scooped up her shoes. "Don't even fuckin' _think_ about asking me out again," she said between clenched teeth.

"Don't worry," he said, without regret. He heard the door slam as he walked across the hall into Jack's room.

* * *

_Please review. Thanks._

* * *


	10. Moments in Time

_**TITLE:** Scenes from an Unplanned Life  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game here.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show_ Drake & Josh_. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while._

_**A/N: **I wanted to taunt you with one more chapter before the Grand Finale. Ha ha. By the way...Megan speaks!_

* * *

Chapter 10: Moments in Time

**POV: Various**

"There," Drake said with satisfaction, stepping back and surveying his handiwork. He grinned. "Perfect."

Jack stared up at him, wrinkling his nose uncomfortably. "It feels funny," he announced, lifting his left hand to touch his cheek with the tip of his index finger.

"Don't touch it," Drake said, grasping Jack's wrist and pulling his hand away. "It'll smear."

"But it itches," Jack protested, wrinkling his nose again.

"It won't when it dries," Drake explained. "So hands off until then."

Jack pursed his lips. "Can I at least look now?"

Drake grinned. "Sure. But be prepared to be terrified. _Muahahahah._"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He turned and walked into the bathroom, Drake following behind.

The boy climbed onto the step he used to brush his teeth and studied his reflection closely, turning his head from side to side. A wide grin spread slowly across his face, a slash of white among the black paint. "Cool."

Drake felt his own smile widen. "Scary, huh?"

Jack nodded, making eye contact with his dad in the mirror. "I'll be the scariest kid in class!" he exclaimed excitedly.

"I thought you already were," Drake quipped, smirking.

Jack made a face, causing Drake to laugh. "We're still gonna go trick or treating tonight, right?" the boy asked hopefully.

"I wouldn't miss it," Drake assured him.

Jack turned on the step, facing his dad. "You're gonna paint your face, too, aren't you?"

"Of _course._" Drake answered, raising his eyebrows. "We'll be the coolest zombie rock stars in the history of Halloween."

"_Yeah _we will!" Jack said, grinning, then looking quizzically at his dad's odd expression. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Drake said, shaking off the odd feeling of déjà vu that had just come over him at the familiar expression. How many times had he or Josh said those same words? He focused back on the boy in front of him. "I'm sorry I forgot to get the stuff to do your hair. I'll get it today."

Jack shrugged. "That's okay. But don't forget, I want orange."

"Sure thing, bud." He tousled Jack's hair. "Orange it is."

Later that night, two sets of shoeless feet rested side by side on the coffee table, which was pulled up very close to the couch to accommodate the short legs of one very wired zombie rock star. Two pillow cases bulging with candy – one to Drake's right and one to Jack's left – rested on the couch. They had gone to the mall to trick or treat, then had taken a quick round around their building before heading home with their spoils.

Drake looked at his son, who stared back at him expectantly. The makeup was starting to smudge in places, but the dark brown spikes with the orange tips – Drake had given himself blue tips – were still going strong. It was going to take a few rounds of "lather, rinse, repeat" before it all washed out. Strategically ripped jeans and tight black t-shirts completed their ensembles.

Pulling his bag closer, he slid his hand inside, nodding at Jack to do the same. He raised his eyebrows. "Ready?"

Jack nodded, his hand poised inside the bag. "Ready."

"On three," Drake instructed. "One…two…" They looked at each other, grinning.

"Three!" Jack exclaimed and dug his hand into the middle of the bag, finally closing his fingers around a piece, holding it there.

"Got one?" Drake asked, grasping a piece of his own.

"Yup."

"Okay, now let's see it!" Drake said, pulling out his hand and holding it out palm up, revealing his piece of candy to Jack – a bite-sized Snickers.

Jack did the same thing – a miniature Reese's peanut butter cup.

The two Parker men eyed each other. Drake raised one eyebrow. "Keep or trade?" he asked.

"Hmmm," Jack said, tapping the tip of his right index finger against his lips in deliberation, his gray eyes sparkling. "I think I'm gonna keep this one," he finally said, grinning mischievously. He knew how much his dad liked peanut butter cups.

Drake narrowed his eyes. "You're an evil, evil child." Then he winked. "I have taught you well, my son."

"Thank you," Jack said, deepening his voice as much as he could. "Thank you very much."

"But you just wait until I have Skittles and it's my turn to keep or trade," Drake added.

"I don't need your stinking Skittles," Jack said with what Drake figured was supposed to be a Spanish accent.

Drake laughed until his sides ached.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Audrey was putting all of her energy into the stain removal process - she had applied the gel, had let it set, then had soaked it. But the damn spot still wouldn't come out. It sat there, clear as day against Walter's white shirt, taunting her. She had nearly scrubbed a hole in the fabric with a toothbrush; she wasn't going to let it defeat her. But when the drop of water fell from the tip of her nose onto her hand as she bent over the shirt, she stopped. She was doing it again – trying to forget. Ignoring the pain that festered inside her.

She busied herself with the little things these days – like doing the laundry, dusting the knick knacks, rearranging the furniture, buying the groceries. But no matter how many little things she did, it was never enough to ward off the guilt that ate at her.

He had been gone for two weeks and the expectation that the next phone call would be from him had not dissipated. She still expected him to walk through the front door at any time, wearing his patented sheepish grin and dropping his backpack on the floor in the foyer before rummaging through the refrigerator like nothing had happened.

She promised herself that if he would just call, if he would just come home, she would… well, a lot of things. She would stop being so pushy. She would stop trying to run his life. She would eat healthier and exercise more and stop using the "F" word, even though no one ever heard her use it.

She would promise anything if it meant that her son would come home.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Walter shuffled down to the kitchen in the middle of the night, his rumbling stomach drawing him to the refrigerator. He hadn't slept well – he and Audrey's late night argument with Drake kept playing over and over again inside his head. It was a recurring theme lately, especially since the boys graduated from high school. Drake wanted independence on his own terms, they wanted him to earn it.

It was getting rather tiresome, he thought. Drake was a good kid. Sure, he was impetuous. But he had a good head on his shoulders despite it all. Walter had tried to talk to Audrey, had even suggested to her that maybe they should let him go to Europe or something – anything to tame his wild streak. Maybe if he could experience the world a little, he wouldn't be so antsy. Maybe he'd settle down, start to see life as they both knew it to be – not as easy as it looked.

But his wife had resisted. All she could see when she looked at Drake was her child, a person she had carried inside of her and then nurtured for eighteen years. What she couldn't see, didn't _want_ to see was that the boy she still referred to as her baby – much to his dismay – was no longer a boy. But he wasn't quite an adult either. He was at that awkward stage where he ached to be grown up, but didn't quite know how to go about it.

In the end, Walter had come around to Audrey's point of view. They wanted to present a united front to Drake, after all; it wouldn't do any good for him and Audrey to have different ideas about their son's life. Teenagers, especially those as savvy at manipulating people as Drake was, can sense weakness like a lion on the hunt. That was when the battle had begun in earnest, culminating in the argument of the night before that still bothered him.

He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bowl of cold spaghetti – leftovers from dinner. Grabbing a fork from the strainer in the sink, he sat down with his snack, setting the bowl on the table and peeling off the lid. He sat in the almost-dark, the security light by the back door casting the room in an eerie glow. He wrapped his mouth around a forkful of spaghetti and was chewing thoughtfully, thinking that he would try once again to talk to Audrey about Drake. The war of attrition they were fighting wasn't working.

A soft buzzing sound startled Walter out of his reverie and he nearly choked on his mouthful of spaghetti. A blue glow emanated from the other side of the table – a cell phone was vibrating against the wood, the vibration causing it to move along the tabletop. Walter reached for it – it was Drake's and there was a message on the screen alerting him that he had a new text message. Knowing he shouldn't but doing it anyway, Walter pressed the button to read the message: "thinking of u. cant wait 2 c u. xoxo" The sender was someone named Staci with an "i".

Walter rolled his eyes, chuckling softly. Drake had had so many girlfriends, Walter couldn't keep track of them all and had therefore stopped trying. He remembered one particularly disastrous conversation he had had with his stepson regarding what Walter had euphemistically called "the dance of love." He wasn't sure why he had thought that was a good idea, but he had decided that maybe Drake needed a refresher course after Walter had caught the boy with his hand up the shirt and his tongue down the throat of a pretty brunette in the backseat of the family SUV.

Drake had simply said, "It's called sex, Walter. It's okay, you can say it," his eyes twinkling in amusement. He wasn't embarrassed at all, but Walter had been so mortified he simply gave up and fled from the room.

Feeling guilty for invading Drake's privacy, he exited out of the message box and set the phone back down on the table, noticing a set of keys on the table, too. Taking a couple more bites of spaghetti, he stood up, secured the lid back on the bowl, put the bowl back in the refrigerator, and dropped the fork in the sink.

Yes, he decided. He would try to talk to Audrey again. They just couldn't go on the way things were. Something had to give or Walter was afraid Drake may actually follow through with his threat of leaving.

"_Don't be surprised if you wake up one morning to find me gone."_

Neither he nor Audrey wanted it to get that far.

What he didn't realize as he made his way back upstairs was that it already had.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Fuck him," she said resolutely to her reflection. The sound of the word being spoken in her own voice never failed to send a frisson of forbidden excitement down her spine.

Megan stood in the bathroom, contemplating how long it would take this time before the redness in her eyes went away. She didn't want them to know; she wasn't supposed to care, right?

She always said she'd be happier without him, always seemed to find joy in his misery. She did her best to convince everyone that she was endlessly irritated with his very existence. But there were times when she would let the façade slip – like the time she got what she later considered to be too excited in front of her fellow Campfire Kids when she thought Drake was going to be on the radio. Or the time she kissed her brothers on the cheek and actually told them she loved them (oh my god!) after they showed her the truth about Cory.

It had been almost a month – 26 days, to be exact – since Drake had left without even saying goodbye. That had hurt more than she wanted to admit, but she refused to show it. Besides, her mom had shed enough tears to fuel the next Great Flood.

She had always been a private person. She had always kept her admiration of her brother a secret, never letting him know just how proud she was of him. She had always basked in the glow of his success even while covering it with sarcasm. She had always meant to tell him that she was proud of him – someday.

But someday had never come and now it was too late.

Maybe if she hadn't tormented him so much. Maybe if she hadn't made it her life's goal to prove to him just how much she _didn't _care. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Megan Parker didn't show weakness. Being strong and putting up a brave front was just something she had done ever since her parents had gotten divorced and her dad hadn't come back. But even she had a limit, a breaking point. In the end, it was the silence that broke her – the _not_ talking, the _not_ laughing, the _not_ hearing Drake's guitar drifting down the hallway.

So she cried. Almost every day now, although she hated herself for it. It used to be spontaneous, but she had learned to control it, usually waiting until she was in the shower with the water running before letting it happen. But she hadn't yet been able to prevent her eyes from getting red and so she had been forced to add an extra fifteen minutes to her morning ritual to give them time to recover. When she left the bathroom, there couldn't be a single visible scar.

"Fuck him," she said again, tossing back her hair, her voice more confident. It was something new she was trying – feigned disinterest. Eye drops weren't working, so maybe she could will the redness away. Maybe she could fool herself into thinking that his sudden absence from her life hadn't torn a hole in her heart. If she could, then maybe she wouldn't cry at all.

Maybe.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

It was supposed to have been fun, the best day of his life to that point. Only it wasn't. He stood in his new dorm room, trying to decide which side he wanted – his roommate, whom he hadn't met yet, hadn't arrived and so he had first pick.

Drake would've had it figured out in a second – which side had the better view of the open field out back where girls would no doubt sun themselves in bikinis; which side was closest to the refrigerator; which bed was more comfortable. For him, it would've been a cinch. But for Josh, every decision these days was agonizingly difficult.

Take, for example, the decision regarding which things to take with him to college. It had taken him a week of packing, unpacking, and repacking before he finally settled on what to bring. For Drake, it would've been easy – a couple pairs of jeans, a few t-shirts, his MP3 player, and his guitar. All the necessities of life.

_What would Drake do?_ He asked himself that a lot these days. Maybe he should have a bracelet made – WWDD?

He could hear his brother's voice now, as clear inside his head as if he was standing right in front of him. "Dude, not the magic stuff. No way. This is your chance to be someone else, someone _not you._ Think about the girls, Josh. _College _girls." And he would waggle his eyebrows and flash his high-voltage grin.

"I'm here to learn, Drake," he would patiently explain, while at the same time trying not to let on that visions of pretty college co-eds had plagued his thoughts more and more of late. "College is a place of higher education."

"What was that?"

The sound of his father's voice drew him back to reality. "Huh?" he asked dumbly.

Walter gave his son an odd look. "You were saying something…?"

He didn't realize he had spoken out loud. Gosh, he really was losing his mind. "Nothing," he said quickly.

"Where should I put this?" Walter asked, gesturing with his chin to the box in his arms.

"Uh," Josh said. He still hadn't decided. Finally, with one more quick look around the small room, he pointed to the far side. "Over there."

Later that night, as he sat all alone in his new home, he would discover that this side of the room _did_ have a better view of the open field out back, after all.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

It had been a long ten days – all of them spent waiting for the certified letter that was currently resting unopened on the bar in front of him. Drake sat slumped on a stool, his tired eyes alternately focusing on the envelope and on Pete, who was taking inventory behind the bar, periodically scribbling something on a clipboard.

At that moment, Drake's eyes were studying the envelope again. It looked harmless enough – after all, it was just paper and ink. But it terrified him. His fingers closed around the edges, lifting it off the bar, his eyes scanning the surface. There was an official company logo embossed in the upper left-hand corner. His name and address were printed across the front.

It looked like any other letter. Except it wasn't.

He dropped it on the bar again with a very faint _thump_ and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. The words, "Just open it already," drew his attention away from the envelope and onto Pete, who was leaning against his forearms on the bar, looking at Drake across the polished wood surface.

Drake took a deep breath, pushing it out slowly past his lips. "I…can't."

Pete appraised his friend closely, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Are you afraid it'll say you are or you're not?"

His throat closing, Drake whispered, "I don't know."

Pete pressed his fingers along the top edge of the envelope and pushed it towards Drake. "You won't know either way unless you open it." When Drake didn't move, Pete said, "If you don't, I will."

Drake looked at Pete, moved to grab the envelope, then pulled his hands away, pressing them against his thighs to keep them from shaking. "You do it."

Picking up the envelope, Pete raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you want me to open it?" he asked.

Drake just nodded, staring at the envelope.

"Okay," Pete said, then wedged his finger under the flap and worked it across slowly, being careful not to tear it. He reached inside and pulled out the report, unfolding it as his eyes scanned the words. After what seemed like an excruciatingly long moment, he looked back up at Drake, who had been staring at him in silence, dark eyes wide.

"_Mazel Tov_," Pete said softly, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It's a boy." He laid the report on the bar in front Drake.

Drake exhaled sharply, his eyes darting from Pete's face to the paper in front of him and back again, his trembling fingers finding the report and worrying its edges. He looked at the report – the words looked like so much gobbledygook to him – except for a sentence near the bottom of the page, in bold letters, that began, "It has been determined with 99.999 percent certainty…"

He read the line a half dozen times, then turned his eyes towards his friend, who was looking back at him with an odd expression. "Guess what?" Pete asked him.

"What?" Drake responded over his pounding heart.

"You're smiling," Pete replied, displaying one of his own.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

She wore flip-flops and cutoff cargo pants and had a tattoo of a ladybug on her ankle. Her dark eyes flicked to Drake across the metal table outside Starbucks.

"When Mom told me you were back, I didn't believe it. But here you are." Her nails were painted black, Drake noticed, as she wrapped her fingers around her coffee cup. "I would've come to San Diego, you know."

Drake shrugged. "That's alright," he said. "I'm the one who needs to put in the work to set things right. Besides, I've never been to Berkeley."

He looked at her – she barely resembled the girl he remembered. Megan Parker was all grown up – she had her hair pulled up, a few dark strands blowing across her face in the breeze. The final remnants of adolescence had disappeared. She was beautiful, he realized; the truth of it startled him.

She dug in her purse – a small knitted pouch that she wore cross-wise across her body – and emerged holding a pack of cigarettes. She held them out to him, lifting her eyebrows in a silent question.

He demurred, shocked, and watched in silence as she helped herself to one, lighting it up with a red plastic lighter and inhaling deeply. She kept her eyes on him even as she turned her head to blow a stream of smoke into the atmosphere.

"I've shocked you," she said, one corner of her mouth turning upward.

Drake smiled slightly, nodding. "A little. I've never seen you smoke before."

She fixed him with a steady stare from her dark eyes. "You haven't seen me do a lot of things."

True enough. And the hardness that edged her words shot a dagger of guilt through his heart. He remembered her being softer, sweeter. She had been evil, sure, and she had lived to torture him, but she had been sweet. Maybe it was just nostalgia coloring his memories.

"Look, Megan…"

"Don't bother," she said, taking another drag from her cigarette and flicking the ash onto the sidewalk.

A flash of anger coursed through him. "Why won't anyone let me apologize?" he asked exasperatingly, almost to himself.

"Because it doesn't matter, Drake," she said, sitting up and crushing out her cigarette in the flimsy tin ashtray on the table. "It's just words."

Drake's shoulders visibly slumped. He leaned against the back of the chair and sighed. "I don't know what else to do," he said sadly.

Megan watched him in silence for a long moment. She used to think she hated him. But at that moment, she knew she never had. And that she never could. He was her brother, after all. And despite everything, she loved him.

She took a breath, let it out. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, without the hard edge it had before. "You're doing it, Drake. _This_," she said, motioning between them. "You came back," she continued. "That's all you can do."

They sat in silence for a long time, then finally drifted into small talk. He told her about Jack and his job and their life in Florida, how they were going back in a few days – Jack was starting first grade. She told him about school – she was studying anthropology – and about her boyfriend, Kevin, who was an economics major and two years older than she was. They had separate lives now, far removed from each other in both years and miles. But they would always be connected.

While they had been talking, two more cigarette butts joined the first one in the ashtray. Finally, they stood to go. Megan looked at her brother – now was her chance to finally say what she had meant to say all those years ago. "Fatherhood agrees with you, Drake. I'm proud of you." She smiled a fragile smile, her eyes shining. "I've always been proud of you."

Drake blinked against the tears that sprang suddenly to his eyes. He didn't know what to say. Her hug took him by surprise and it took him a moment to return the favor. She was shorter than him, coming to just under his chin, and her black hair tickled his nose in the breeze. After a long moment, she pulled away, blinking up at him. "Now go away, you boob, before all of my mascara runs," she said, laughing as she dragged her fingers under her eyes. "I have a reputation for being a cold-hearted bitch to uphold, you know."

Drake smiled. "Believe me, I know." The look she shot him made him laugh.

"Do me a favor," she said suddenly, her voice casual even though her eyes were serious.

"Anything."

"Don't go another seven years without calling me," she admonished gently.

"I won't," Drake whispered.

"And," Megan added, brightening, "don't tell Mom or Walter about the smoking."

A slow grin spread across Drake's face. "Sweet, perfect Megan has a dirty little secret? I'm shocked," he said, placing his hand over his heart in exaggerated surprise.

"Cute," she quipped, smirking. "Just promise me."

Years ago, his first instinct would have been to use her secret as blackmail fodder. But now, he simply nodded. "I promise." Then he grinned again. "Does Josh know?"

Megan rolled her eyes. "You mean 'The Doctor'?" she asked facetiously. "He's not a _real_ doctor, mind you. But that doesn't stop him from dispensing medical advice. He threatens to tell on me if I don't quit." Her voice was hard, but her eyes were full of affection. "He keeps sending me boxes of nicotine patches and e-mailing me stuff about shots and hypnosis."

Drake laughed. "Sounds like Josh." Then, "But he's right, you know. Those things'll kill ya."

"Of course he's right," she said. "But I like to make him squirm."

Drake just shook his head. "Some things never change."

Megan just smiled. "You wouldn't want me any other way."

"You're right," Drake said. "I wouldn't."

* * *

_On to the final chapter..._

_Reviews are like miniature Snickers...really, really good! Thanks!_


	11. Thicker Than Water

_**TITLE:** Scenes from an Unplanned Life  
**SPOILERS:** Anything from the series is fair game here.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show_ Drake & Josh_. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while._

_**A/N: **This is the last chapter! The moment you all have been waiting for has finally arrived. I hope it was worth the wait.

* * *

_Chapter 11: Thicker Than Water

**POV: Drake/Josh, 25 years old**

It was a small place – a quaint Chinese restaurant that was as far removed from a chain as McDonald's was from fine dining. When Drake pulled into the parking lot, there were only four other cars there. Not knowing what kind of car Josh had, Drake had no idea if his brother was there yet.

He stepped out of the car and took a deep breath to calm his nerves, squinting into the late afternoon sun. The gravel in the small parking lot crunched under his boots as he walked towards the front door. Red paper lanterns, faded and tattered, adorned the front of the restaurant.

When he opened the door, the smells of stir-fried vegetables and ginger hit his nose and his stomach growled noisily, clueing him in to the hunger he had been ignoring since he left San Diego. A pretty Asian woman with smooth skin and brown, almond-shaped eyes smiled at him as he pulled off his sunglasses and blinked in the dim light. "Welcome," she said sweetly. "Just one?" She spoke English with an accent that lent authenticity to the establishment.

"I'm supposed to meet someone," Drake said, giving her a small smile. "He might already be here." He craned his neck to look into the dining room.

"A very tall man with black hair?" she offered helpfully, still smiling.

Drake's heart started pounding. "Sounds like him." He wiped his suddenly-sweaty palms on his jeans. "Where is he?" he asked, looking again.

"He's in the back," she answered, nodding. "He said he was waiting for someone. Maybe that's you."

"Yeah," Drake said distractedly, taking another deep breath.

"Right this way," she said and starting walking into the dining room, Drake following closely behind.

Their eyes met across the room and Drake felt a tiny smile pull at the corners of his mouth – an entirely inappropriate gesture, he knew, considering Josh didn't return the favor. "Hey," he said softly, a little unsure. He remained standing after the hostess had left.

Josh looked up at him for a moment, contemplating his words. Finally, one side of his mouth lifting in what Drake chose to believe was the faintest hint of a smile, he said, "If you're waiting for me to pull out your chair, you can forget it."

Drake's shoulders visibly lowered as a sigh escaped his lips. His fingers shook as he pulled out his chair and sat down. He looked across the small table at his brother, who sat in silence, his long fingers wrapped around an almost-empty glass of beer.

"I'm glad you called," Drake said softly, breaking the silence that was growing more formidable by the second.

Josh nodded almost imperceptibly. "I didn't mean what I said, you know," he replied, his voice so soft that Drake barely heard him, "about not having a brother." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about that."

"It's okay," Drake said hoarsely, relief stealing his voice. "I deserved it."

Josh studied him across the table, draining his glass. Then he said, "Yeah, you did." He paused a beat. "But I'm still sorry."

The server saved Drake from having to find something to say. The slim young man wore black pants, a white dress shirt, and a black tie – a uniform Drake knew well. Having asked for their drink orders, he stood waiting expectantly.

"Water with lemon," Drake said.

"Another beer," Josh replied.

Nodding, the server left and Drake fixed Josh with a wry expression.

"What?" Josh asked a bit uncomfortably.

Drake smiled slightly. "I had you pegged as a teetotaler." He grabbed a handful of crispy noodles, popped some into his mouth.

Josh just shrugged, giving Drake a sardonic smile. He didn't say a word.

It was Drake's turn to squirm. "What?" he asked around a mouthful of noodles.

"Nothing," Josh replied. "I just never thought I'd hear you use the word 'teetotaler'."

"Yeah, well," Drake began, chuckling lightly, "when you're kid's smarter than you are, you figure out fast that a dictionary is for more than just looking up dirty words."

At the mention of Jack, the mood got noticeably more serious. A silence descended that held until well after the server had returned with their drinks. The ice in Drake's glass clinked as he stirred his water nervously with his straw. "I should've told you about Jack," he finally said.

Josh let the comment pass, instead opting to ask, "How old is he?"

"Six," Drake answered. He could see Josh doing the quick subtraction in his head, the subtle look of surprise that colored his expression.

"Yeah," Drake said, nodding. "I get that a lot."

Josh didn't respond right away, just studied the man sitting across from him. He hadn't noticed it before – perhaps because he didn't want to see it – but Drake _had_ matured. He looked basically the same, but there was a hardness to his eyes, a seriousness to his demeanor that screamed _adult_. The boy Josh remembered was gone, relegated forever to his memories.

"Do you have a picture?" he asked after a moment.

Drake shook his head. "Not with…" He snapped his fingers. "Wait! I think I do." He pulled out his wallet and opened it, searching the slots. A few seconds later he looked up, smiling triumphantly. He held out a worn strip of pictures, creased in the middle where they had been folded. They had been taken in one of those photo kiosks in the mall.

Josh wiped the condensation from his fingers and reached for the pictures, holding them close for a better look. There were three pictures. In the first one, Drake and a little boy grinned back at him, and Josh immediately saw the resemblance. In the middle picture, they were making funny faces to the camera, their noses wrinkled up, identical splashes of freckles across their cheeks. The third picture had Jack sitting on Drake's lap, Drake's chin resting on the top of the boy's head; they weren't smiling, but they looked happy anyway.

"He looks like you," Josh said, blinking back sudden tears. He couldn't take his eyes off the pictures – his nephew, his _brother's son_. He wanted to memorize every detail of the boy's face so that he would never forget it.

"Except for his eyes," Drake said. "He gets those from his mother."

The words drew Josh's attention back to Drake. He lowered his hands to the table, still grasping the pictures. "His mother," he said. "Did she come with you?"

Drake almost laughed. "She's not exactly what you'd call a hands-on mom."

"Where is she?" Josh asked softly.

"I have no idea," Drake said evenly. "And I don't really care."

Josh got the feeling he shouldn't ask, but his curiosity got the better of him. "Who is she?"

"Just another face in the crowd," Drake answered dryly, studying Josh's reaction. "In fact, the day she left Jack on my doorstep was only the second time I met her. I didn't even remember her name." He wasn't sure why he was revealing so much, except that sharing secrets with Josh had always come so naturally to him.

"And you haven't seen her since." It wasn't a question.

"Nope." Drake popped another handful of noodles in his mouth, looking around for the server. He was starving. Suddenly he sat up. "Crap."

"What?" Josh asked, startled.

Drake looked at him. "Jack," he said. "I told him I was on my way." He looked at his watch. "I better call him," he added, reaching for his phone.

Josh watched in silence as Drake flipped open his phone. He sat staring at it as an odd expression of mortified disbelief crept over his face.

"What is it?" Josh asked.

Drake dragged his eyes up to meet his brother's. "I don't have the number," he whispered, his hand falling to the table, fingers wrapped tightly around the phone.

"You're kidding."

Drake could only shake his head. It was one of those things that he had forced himself to forget over the years. He hadn't asked for it before he left San Diego and in his jumbled state of mind, he didn't think to look at his recent call list.

"Let me see your phone," Josh said gently, holding out his hand.

Drake handed it to him without a word, his fingers brushing Josh's palm. That was the first physical contact they had had in seven years and the significance wasn't lost on either of them – they held each other's gaze for a long moment.

Josh finally looked down, pressing the buttons of Drake's cell phone in rapid succession, the sounds coming together to create an odd sort of song. "There," he said after a few moments, holding the phone out to Drake. "Now you have no excuse not to call."

"Thanks," Drake muttered, taking the phone from Josh with another brush of his fingers. He held the phone in his right hand and opened his contact list with his thumb, smiling when he saw the first two entries – "AA Josh" and "AA Mom & Dad." Highlighting the second one, he pressed the call button and brought the phone to his ear.

Drake's side of the conversation sounded like this: "Hey, Walter…I'm fine…Let me talk to Jack…Hey, bud…" Josh could see Drake's face soften, a small smile curving his lips. "I'm gonna be later than I thought…I know I said soon, but something came up." He flicked his eyes to Josh. "I've got someone here who wants to talk to you." Josh's eyes got wide and he suddenly felt very nervous, his heart pounding in his ears.

Drake laughed. "You'll have to ask him yourself," he said. "Hold on. Here he is." He held the phone out to Josh, who sat unmoving, staring in terror at the phone.

"W-What do I say?" he asked, looking across the table at Drake.

"Say hello," Drake replied, slightly amused, pushing the phone towards him. He lifted his eyebrows. "He's a kid, Josh, not the president."

Josh nodded absently and reached with trembling fingers for the phone. With one last look at Drake, he pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Who are you?" Jack asked bluntly, his young voice clear through the phone.

"I'm Josh," he replied. "Your Uncle Josh," he clarified, the words tasting sweet on his tongue. He flicked his eyes to Drake, who had a tiny smile on his face. Josh mirrored the expression.

"Oh," Jack said nonchalantly, like he spoke to long-lost uncles everyday. "Are you coming back with my dad?"

Josh sat up straight, the question catching him off-guard. "Well, I…" he stammered. "I don't know." He took a breath, asked softly, "Would you like me to?"

He could almost hear Jack shrug. "My dad said you used to do magic tricks," the boy said, continuing like he hadn't heard the question.

"I still do," Josh replied.

"D'ya think you could teach me one?" Jack asked excitedly.

Josh closed his eyes and swallowed down the lump that was forming in his throat. "Sure," he managed to say.

"Cool," Jack said, then paused for a moment. "Can I talk to my dad now?"

"Sure." He opened his eyes and looked at his brother as he listened to his nephew's voice, trying to reconcile the two in his mind. "I'll talk to you later, okay? Here's your dad." He handed the phone across the table to Drake.

When Drake pressed the phone back to his ear, Josh heard him say, "Hey, bud…He is?" Drake met Josh's eyes, smiling. "That's cool…I'm not sure yet, but it'll probably be pretty late…I know…Be good, okay?...Love you, too…Bye." Flipping the phone closed, Drake slipped it back into his pocket.

"He sounds like a good kid," Josh said, not having anything else to go by.

"He is," Drake said. "Surprisingly enough."

"I'm not surprised," Josh replied seriously. "You were always good with kids."

Drake just looked at him. "Kinda like Peter Pan," he said softly, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

Josh winced at the reminder of his own words. "Look, I…"

But Drake held up a hand, stopping him. "It's okay," he said. A small smile appeared. "You were right. You were _always_ right."

"Not always," Josh said softly, sitting back in his chair. He still held the strip of pictures in his hand and was absently bending one of the corners back and forth. "I wasn't right when I thought you'd never come back."

Drake didn't know what to say. How the hell was he supposed to respond to something like that? He was saved from his dilemma by the server, who was standing next to their table, smiling down at them. "Have you gentlemen decided?"

Drake's hunger, which had been forgotten in the last few minutes, reared its ugly head in the form of a loud stomach grumble that was heard by all three of them. "Um," he said, fumbling with the menu, his eyes scanning the selections. "I'll have some fried dumplings, two eggrolls, a side of chicken fried rice, and a bowl of wonton soup." He moved to close the menu, then said, "Oh! And bring some more of those crunchy noodles, too."

There was a pause as the server finished writing, then turned to Josh. "And for you?"

Josh, who had been staring in disbelief at Drake, finally turned to the server and said, "I'll just have a bowl of egg drop soup. Thanks."

The server gave a little bow and then turned on his heels and headed to the back of the restaurant, leaving the two alone once again. The tension of a few moments before had dissipated and Josh asked lightly, "You're not hungry, are you?"

Drake just shrugged, smiling a little. "I skipped breakfast. Too nervous," he said.

The server brought the crunchy noodles to the table in one of those holders that also included a bowl of spicy mustard and a bowl of duck sauce. Drake grabbed a handful before the server even set it down, popping them into his mouth and chewing noisily.

Several moments of almost companionable silence passed between them before Josh broke it by saying suddenly, "I wanted to hate you."

Drake looked at him in silence, the sound of his heart loud in his ears. "You have every right to," he finally replied.

But Josh shook his head. "I thought it would be easier, you know? If I hated you, then it wouldn't hurt so much. But I couldn't."

"Why not?" Drake asked, holding his breath, fearing the answer.

Josh looked him right in the eye and said, unwaveringly, "'Cause I missed you too much."

And for the second time that day, Drake felt like crying.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

It was almost dark and a balmy breeze was blowing. Drake's eyes followed the path of a paper cup as it skidded across the parking lot. He looked back towards the restaurant; they had turned on the lights inside the paper lanterns and they glowed festively in the growing darkness.

Josh stood next to his car – a dark blue Mercedes, Drake noticed – his keys dangling from his hand. They had finally reached the part of the evening where they had to part ways and both were reluctant. They had talked about most of the standard stuff and a little bit of the other, but they had danced around a lot of it. There was still a lot left to say.

But there would be time for that later.

"I don't regret it, you know," Drake finally said. "Leaving." It was something he had wanted to say all night, but hadn't had the right opening. But here, now, in the dying light of a day he'd never forget, he needed to say it.

Josh clenched his keys in his fist and fought the urge to say something that he knew would only be tinged with the bitterness he needed to let go of. So instead, he rested his arm on the roof of his car and forced himself to listen.

Drake took a breath and shuffled his feet against the asphalt. "I regret the _way_ I did it; I never wanted to hurt you. And I know there's a lot I have to make up for. But I _can't_ regret leaving; do you understand? I _can't_," he said, shaking his head. He felt his lips begin to tremble. "Because that would mean that I regret having Jack. And I could never do that."

"I know," Josh whispered, the bitterness draining away. How could he argue with that? He thought about the well-worn strip of photos in his pocket – Drake had insisted he keep them when he had tried to hand them back – and knew that his brother was telling him the truth.

They held their gaze for a long moment. During all the years they had been brothers, they had spent more years estranged than they had together. And yet, they could still speak volumes to each other without saying a word.

"If Walter hadn't told you about Jack," Drake asked suddenly, the question bubbling up from his subconscious, surprising even him, "would you have called me?"

Josh was taken aback for a moment, then heaved a heavy sigh. He was suddenly so tired. He looked up at the sky – the stars were obscured by the lights of the city, but the moon shone brightly, hanging three-quarters full. Finally, after a long moment of contemplation, he turned to his brother and said honestly, "I don't know."

Drake just nodded, thinking about the answer. "Fair enough." After a beat, he said, "Well, I better get going. It's getting late."

"Yeah," Josh said, standing up straight. "Drive safely."

"You, too." Drake turned towards his car, digging in his pocket for his keys. He had his hand on the door handle when he remembered one more thing he wanted to say. "Josh!" he called.

Josh, who had his door open and his right foot inside the car, stopped and looked at Drake over his car roof. "Yeah?"

Looking at his brother, Drake said softly, "I missed you, too."

Josh only managed a small Mona Lisa smile as he blinked against the sudden sting of tears. He nodded, but couldn't speak.

"Well, goodnight." Not goodbye. Drake turned away, pulling open the car door.

"Wait," Josh said softly and Drake closed his eyes against the undisguised emotion in that single syllable. When he turned around, Josh was standing at the back of his car, looking at him with solemn eyes.

"I want to forgive you," Josh said, the breeze snatching his words away almost before Drake heard them. He fiddled nervously with his keys.

"I'll understand, you know," Drake said softly, "if you can't."

"Mom and Dad already have."

Drake tried to smile, but it was brittle and crumbled away almost immediately. "Yeah, but they _have_ to. It's in the rules," he said, trying to make a joke. He knew beyond reason that he would forgive Jack anything.

Josh looked at his brother – the breeze was blowing his hair up and it haloed around his head in the yellow glow of the street light. For a moment, he looked like the kid he used to be and Josh realized with sudden, startling clarity that he didn't want to lose him again. Drake was a part of him, as essential to his life as air, and over the last seven years, he had been slowly suffocating without him. But now, standing here, his eyes fixed on the brother he thought he'd lost, he could finally breathe again.

He took a step forward, then another, the gravel crunching under his sneakers, until he was standing right in front of Drake. "I'll get there," he said. "Just give me some time, okay?"

"Deal," Drake replied, hating that it sounded so casual, so nonchalant. But he couldn't trust himself to say anything more. He held out his hand.

Josh looked down at Drake's hand, noticed it shaking ever-so-slightly, and felt his doing the same. Their eyes met across the small space between them, the last seven years falling away like dust. At the core of it all, one thing had never changed – they were still brothers. And that was something they could build on.

Finally, Josh opened his arms, palms facing Drake. "Hug me, brother," he said softly, smiling despite the tears that threatened to fall.

This time, as he stepped into his brother's embrace, Drake didn't even look around to see if anyone was watching.

* * *

_THE END_

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